"Let's  go  to  Europe." 


THE 
WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 


A  NOVEL 

BY 

ERNEST  DAVIES 

AUTHOR  OF   "  DIVES  &  SON,"   "THE  MOMENT' 


NEW  YORK 

THE  DEVIN-ADAIR  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
ERNEST   DAVIES 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY   7 


BOOK  I 
JEST  ii 

BOOK  II 
EARNEST 55 

BOOK  III 
WHAT  JAMES  McVmE  DISCOVERED 81 

BOOK  IV 
WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 157 

BOOK  V 

WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED.  .  281 


T  T  was  very  hot.  Even  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
*•  morning  the  dining-room  of  the  flat  on  West 
Forty-Seventh  Street  was  airless,  and  the  smell  of 
stale  coffee  lingered  unpleasantly  in  spite  of  the 
wide-open  window.  The  table  had  not  been 
cleared.  At  one  end  a  dish,  stained  with  the 
scrapings  of  scrambled  egg,  jostled  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  some  dirty  plates.  At  the  other  was  a  Jap- 
anese tray  of  cheap  red  and  black  lacquer,  upon 
which  two  jugs  stood  in  a  small  puddle  of  milk. 
A  butter-plate,  hastily  put  down,  was  tilted  up 
against  the  edge.  The  butter  was  soft,  and  a 
greasy  streak  marked  the  original  outline  of  the 
pat.  Near  the  centre  of  the  table,  a  tall  china 
dish,  lined  with  leaves,  held  a  stump  of  banana- 
stalk  from  which  the  fruit  had  been  torn. 

The  room  was  very  small  and  too  heavily  fur- 
nished. The  chairs  were  upholstered  in  stamped 
velvet,  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  and  the  walls 
were  covered  with  popular  engravings  elaborately 
framed  in  oak  and  gold.  Facing  the  window  Was 
a  walnut-wood  sideboard,  with  a  plate-glass  back 
flanked  by  small  shelves,  each  of  which  held  a  piece 
of  ornamental  pottery — a  long-necked  cat,  a  to- 
bacco jar  in  the  form  of  a  monk's  head  with  a  pink 
tonsure,  a  large  Japanese  vase,  and  a  base  copy  of 
a  Sevres  lady  in  a  crinoline. 

[7] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

In  one  corner  was  an  oak  escritoire.  There 
were  some  open  shelves  nailed  to  the  wall  above  it, 
and  the  higher  ones  were  crowded  with  soiled 
magazines  and  a  few  books,  untidily  pushed  to- 
gether. Upon  the  lowest  stood  a  gilt  clock,  such 
as  is  found  in  the  bedrooms  of  old-fashioned 
French  hotels.  The  gilding  was  tarnished  and  fly- 
blown, and  one  of  the  hands  was  missing.  Along- 
side, an  American  drum  clock  ticked  noisily. 

In  an  armchair  by  the  window  sat  Luke  Johns, 
well  known  to  the  police  and  the  criminal  lawyers 
of  New  York  as  a  private  inquiry  agent  of  con- 
siderable ability.  He  was  wearing  a  flashy  tweed 
suit,  a  fancy  waistcoat  unbuttoned  at  the  top,  and 
felt  slippers;  and  while  he  read  his  morning  news- 
paper he  was  quietly  and  systematically  picking  his 
teeth. 

Facing  him,  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  sat  idly,  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap.  Even  at  forty  she  was  a  pretty 
woman,  of  the  emaciated  type  which  is  now  fash- 
ionable; but  at  the  moment  she  was  far  from 
looking  her  best.  Her  hair  was  twisted  up  into 
a  careless  knot,  her  blue  and  white  wrapper  was 
crumpled  and  had  been  too  often  to  the  laundry, 
and  her  small,  smartly  cut  shoes  were  rubbed 
through  at  the  toes  and  trodden  over  at  the  heels. 

Luke  Johns  laid  down  his  paper,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  looked  out  of  the  window  while  he  in- 
vestigated a  difficult  place  with  his  toothpick.  At 
length,  turning  to  his  wife,  he  said: 

"Janie,  if  I  stay  here  I'm  going  to  be  sick." 
[8] 


INTRODUCTORY 

She  stirred  and  raised  her  head,  looking  at  him 
with  thoughtful  eyes. 

"It's  about  time  for  a  holiday,"  she  answered. 
"There's  no  work  on  hand,  and  not  likely  to  be 
yet." 

"That's  so.  And  we've  got  a  thousand  dollars 
in  the  bank." 

"It  isn't  much.    We've  had  no  luck  lately." 

"We're  stale,  you  and  me;   and  that's  a  fact." 

"Perhaps  we  are.  I  don't  seem  able  to  think, 
even  if  anything  did  come  along." 

"I've  got  an  idea.     Don't  shriek!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Let's  go  to  Europe." 

Mrs.  Johns  shot  a  surprised  glance  at  him. 
Then  she  laughed. 

"Well,  why  not?"  she  said.  "We  ought  to  go 
some  time." 

"We'll  go  now." 

"Can  we  manage  on  a  thousand  dollars?" 

"Yes.  There  are  other  places  to  stay  besides 
the  Ritz." 

"My!     It  would  be  good." 

"You're  on?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  I'll  go  down  to  the  steamship  office. 
Can  you  start  to-morrow?" 

"Ye-es.     I'll  want  a  few  things." 

"Come  with  me.    We'll  fix  it  right  now." 

He  sprang  up  and  took  her  affectionately  by  the 
arm,  adding: 

[9] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"We'll  have  a  look  at  Europe.  Perhaps  it'll 
change  the  luck  for  us  when  we  come  back.  Any- 
way, it  couldn't  be  worse  than  lately." 

"Perhaps  it  will.  I  don't  care;  we'll  risk  it. 
We've  chanced  more  than  this  before  now,  haven't 
we?" 

"Guess  we  have.  Come  on,  and  don't  worry 
about  things,  Janie.  We  always  snatch  the  dollars 
out  of  some  one  when  we  want  'em  bad  enough." 


[10] 


BOOK  I 
JEST 


CHAPTER  I 

"1LTAVE  you  got  the  clocks?"  Hilda  Carew 
-*•  •*•  whispered. 

Ethel  Vawdrey  nodded. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"In  my  room — twelve  of  them." 

It  was  the  after-tea  hour  at  Gains.  The  men  had 
drifted  away  to  the  billiard-room,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Arthur  Drury,  who  was  sitting  beside  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing,  talking  to  her  in  a  low  tone.  Her 
pretty,  made-up  face,  with  its  tip-tilted,  impertinent 
nose  and  its  coronet  of  auburn  hair,  wore  an  ex- 
pression of  satisfied  proprietorship.  She  liked 
Drury,  and  she  did  not  find  his  attentions  less 
pleasing  because  he  was  her  junior  by  some  years. 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  was  laying  out  the  cards  for  her 
daily  game  of  patience;  and  Lady  Benyon  was  pre- 
tending to  be  interested,  while  she  yawned  behind 
her  fan,  and  reflected  on  the  dulness  of  country 
houses.  She  did  not  like  dulness  any  more  than  she 
liked  patience;  and  the  hours  between  five  and  seven 
were  always  difficult  to  fill. 

Ethel  Vawdrey,  in  a  velvet  tea-gown  of  the  latest 
fashion,  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  turning  over 
the  pages  of  The  Sketch.  She  was  a  very  pretty 
girl  of  two  and  twenty,  with  a  marvelous  com- 
plexion and  a  slight,  lissome  figure.  She  would 
have  been  pretty  in  rags,  and  with  the  unlimited 

[13] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

allowance  of  a  millionaire's  only  child  she  deserved 
her  reputation  for  positive  loveliness.  The  lace 
sleeve  falling  back  and  the  supple  gold  bracelet 
hanging  loosely  on  her  wrist  undoubtedly  enhanced 
the  beauty  of  her  arm  as  it  rested  on  the  back  of 
the  sofa. 

To  the  eye  Hilda  Carew  was  less  attractive, 
though  she  was  by  no  means  plain.  She  was  tall 
and  sturdily  built,  of  the  open-air  type  which  looks 
its  best  in  country  clothes.  Her  hands  and  feet 
were  large  and  well  shaped;  her  waist  suggested 
healthy  development  rather  than  elegance,  and  her 
wide  brow  and  clear  blue  eyes  would  not  have  in- 
spired a  passionate  sonnet,  though  they  might  have 
made  a  man  fall  in  love  with  her.  She  was  known 
as  a  good  comrade,  level-headed,  and  useful  in  an 
emergency.  Leslie  Eraser's  sarcastic  tongue  had 
once  summed  her  up  as  an  excellent  wife  for  a 
country  squire  who  had  broad  acres  and  wanted 
broad  children. 

"Twelve !"  she  whispered.  "How  splendid  !  I 
suppose  the  shopman  thought  you  were  quite  mad  ?" 

"I  told  him  the  servants  couldn't  wake,  and  I 
wanted  one  for  each  of  them.  He  looked  per- 
fectly incredulous,  and  asked :  'An'  ye  have  twelve 
servants?'  I  said  we  had  ever  so  many  more  than 
that,  only  some  of  them  slept  together." 

^Excellent!     It  will  be  all  over  Stilkirk." 

"Sure  to  be.  But  we  already  have  such  a  repu- 
tation for  extravagance  that  it  can't  add  much 
to  it." 

[14] 


JEST 

"Let's  go  up  and  see  them." 

"Come  along,  then." 

They  crossed  the  hall,  and  went  up  the  great 
staircase  to  Ethel's  boudoir.  The  room  was  filled 
with  the  sound  of  ticking,  and  on  a  table  there  were 
twelve  American  alarm  clocks,  looking  aggres- 
sively new  and  cheap  in  their  shiny  tin  cases. 

"Oh!"  cried  Hilda  delightedly,  as  she  took  one 
up.  "Aren't  they  lovely  !" 

"Gorgeous!  It  really  was  a  heavenly  idea  of 
yours." 

"Yes,  I  think  they  will  avenge  the  apple-pie 
beds.  Willie  will  be  in  a  very  contrite  mood  to- 
morrow morning." 

"He'll  be  very  cross.  He  simply  won't  sleep  a 
wink." 

"I  wouldn't  promise  that — with  him." 

"But,  my  dear — why,  they  would  rouse  the 
seven  sleepers !" 

"Maudie  declares  she  hears  him  snoring  through 
the  wall;  and  if  that's  true,  he'll  simply  snore 
down  the  noise  of  these.  Have  you  tried  one?" 

"They  let  one  off  in  the  shop.  It  was  awful.  I 
said  I  wanted  them  extra  loud." 

'.'Let's  do  one  now.    How  do  they  work?" 

"You  have  to  set  the  dial.    Let  me." 

Ethel  took  the  clock  and  turned  the  alarm  hand 
to  five  minutes  past  six.  In  a  moment  the  ticking 
of  the  twelve  clocks  was  drowned  in  a  discord- 
ant metallic  buzzing,  which  continued  for  thirty 

f'5] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

seconds,   and  died  away  in  a  series  of  gurglir 
clicks.     The  two  girls  burst  out  laughing. 

"Perfectly  heavenly  1"  Hilda  cried.  "I  do  wis 
we  could  see  him  when  they  go  off." 

"That's  the  drawback.  We  shall  miss  the  be 
of  the  fun." 

"Maudie  must  keep  awake;  she'll  be  able  i 
hear  him  raging.  Let's  get  her  up  here." 

"Oh,  she's  talking  to  Arthur  Drury.  Bett 
not  disturb  them." 

"I  suppose  it's  a  case  with  him.  Do  you  thir 
she's  interested?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  think  s< 
I  always  find  him  rather  tiresome." 

"He's  so  conceited,  isn't  he?" 

"He  wants  well  snubbing." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.    Then  Hilda  sai< 

"Oh,  but,  Ethel — won't  Willie  hear  this  awf 
ticking?  I  don't  mean  when  he's  asleep,  but  wh< 
he  goes  to  bed." 

"I  thought  of  that.  The  shopman  said,  if  tl 
clocks  were  wrapped  up  in  a  cloth,  with  the  alar 
sticking  out,  it  would  be  all  right." 

"Then,  let's  do  it.  What  shall  we  wra 
them  in?" 

"Dusters,  I  should  think.    I'll  ring." 

"I'll  cover  them  up  with  this  paper.  We  dor 
want  the  maid  to  see  them." 

Two  dozen  clean  dusters  were  ordered  and  pr 
duced,  and  the  girls  began  to  swathe  each  clock 
thick  folds. 

[16] 


JEST 

"We  must  set  them  first,"  Hilda  said. 

"Yes.  Let's  see — what  time  shall  we  put  the 
first  at?" 

"Two  o'clock,  and  then  every  hour." 

"That's  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  and  seven." 

"And  the  grand  slam  at  seven;  there'll  be  seven 
at  once.  I'm  sure  he  won't  go  to  sleep  again  after 
that." 

They  burst  out  laughing  again  at  the  thought  of 
Willie  Pfeiffer  roused  by  the  simultaneous  clang- 
ing of  seven  American  alarm  clocks  from  the  deep 
sleep  which  he  was  supposed  to  enjoy.  The  legend 
had  grown  from  a  protest  made  by  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  who  occupied  the  room  next  to  his  at  Gains. 
She  had  accused  him  of  snoring  so  loudly  that  she 
was  kept  awake,  and  since  then  the  party  had 
teased  him  without  mercy.  At  dinner,  whatever 
subject  was  started,  the  conversation  invariably 
came  round  to  Willie  Pfeiffer  in  bed;  and  since 
Vawdrey  had  gravely  asked  him,  apropos  of  some 
new  novel,  whether  he  had  ever  read  the  story  of 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  he  was  always  addressed  as  Rip. 
It  was  the  useful  joke,  without  which  no  house- 
party  is  completely  at  ease;  and,  in  a  way  well 
known  to  pantomime  comedians,  repetition  in- 
creased its  popularity. 

Like  a  musical  theme,  it  lent  itself  to  a  great 
variety  of  treatment.  At  tea-time  on  the  previous 
day,  the  butler  had  brought  in  a  neat  chemist's 
parcel  addressed  to  Pfeiffer.  On  being  opened,  it 
was  found  to  contain  a  small  box  labelled  "Vinolia 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Pills   (Violet  flavor).     A  certain  cure  for  sleepi- 
ness.    To  be  administered  as  required." 

Pfeiffer,  attributing  this  attention  to  Hilda 
Carew,  resolved  upon  a  revenge;  and,  with 
Drury's  help,  he  made  apple-pie  beds  for  the  two 
girls.  The  clocks  were  the  answer  to  this  indignity. 

"Now,  have  we  got  them  all  right?"  Ethel 
asked. 

"Yes.  Two,  three,  four,  five,  six;  and  seven 
for  seven  o'clock,"  Hilda  answered,  checking  them 
off. 

"Then  we'd  better  roll  them  up  in  the  dusters, 
and  they'll  be  ready  for  after  dinner." 

"Mind  you  leave  the  alarms  sticking  out." 

"Rather— like  that." 

"Yes." 

"You  can  still  hear  the  ticking." 

"Only  just.    He  won't  notice  it." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Well,  let's  go  down.  They  may  suspect  some- 
thing if  we  keep  out  of  the  way." 

"It's  almost  dressing-time,  isn't  it?" 

"There's  half  an  hour  yet.  We'll  go  and  show 
ourselves  in  the  billiard-room." 

In  the  evening,  while  the  men  were  still  in  the 
dining-room,  finishing  a  bottle  of  Mr.  Vawdrey's 
excellent  port,  Ethel  and  Hilda  ran  upstairs  and 
fetched  the  clocks.  They  went  into  Pfeiffer's 
room  and  distributed  them  in  various  hiding-places. 
One  was  put  in  the  wardrobe,  the  door  being  left 
ajar;  another  in  the  clothes  basket,  two  more 
[18] 


JEST 

under  the  chest  of  drawers,  one  in  the  boot-cup- 
board, and  the  grand  slam  under  the  bed. 

"Bon  soir,  monsieur,"  Ethel  said,  with  a  deep 
curtsey  toward  the  empty  bed,  as  they  left  the 
room. 


[19] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  old  house  at  Gains  used  to  possess  an 
historic  and  antiquarian  interest  inferior  to 
none  in  Scotland;  but,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  it  had  been  burnt  to  the  ground, 
and  the  Fraser  of  that  day  rebuilt  it  as  a  comforta- 
ble dwelling-house  of  the  period,  without  attempt- 
ing to  reproduce  its  original  design.  Its  appear- 
ance, therefore,  was  scarcely  in  harmony  with  the 
wild  .moorland  country.  Its  neat  Georgian  eleva- 
tion was  almost  townish;  and,  if  it  harbored  a 
ghost,  it  was  certainly  one  in  a  velvet  suit  and 
buckled  shoes.  The  furniture,  too,  carried  one 
no  further  back  than  the  days  of  card-playing  and 
duelling  and  of  those  polite  manners  which  indus- 
trialism has  taken  from  us.  It  belonged  to  the 
age  of  mahogany,  and  tall  silver  candlesticks,  and 
immense  wine-coolers — the  age  of  port  and  of 
uncustomed  French  brandy  in  convenient  wooden 
kegs. 

The  house  was  stone-built  and  flat-fronted,  with 
a  wing  running  back  at  right  angles  to  the  main 
structure.  The  entrance  door  in  the  centre  of  the 
south  frontage  opened  into  the  great  hall,  and  on 
either  side  of  the  door  there  were  seven  tall  win- 
dows. Above  was  a.  stately  range  of  fifteen  win- 
dows corresponding  with  those  below ;  and,  above 
again,  fifteen  dormer  windows  behind  a  brick 
[20] 


JEST 

coping  completed  the  mathematical  elevation  which 
bears  witness  in  every  town  in  England  to  the 
popularity  of  Wren  and  his  followers. 

The  estate  of  Gains  had  belonged  to  the  Erasers 
for  more  than  six  centuries  before  it  passed  to 
Leslie  Eraser,  the  present  representative  of  the 
family.  Port  and  card-playing  had  proved  costly 
amusements,  and  the  family  fortunes  had  waned 
grievously  since  the  time  when  Fraser  of  Gains 
had  entertained  James  V  and  had  led  a  thousand 
men  in  his  defence.  So,  when  Leslie  Fraser  in- 
herited the  property  from  his  father,  he  found 
that  the  revenue  was  barely  sufficient  to  pay  in- 
terest on  the  mortgages. 

He  had  no  profession,  and  in  addition  to  the 
necessity  of  maintaining  himself  in  the  state  of 
comfort  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  he  had  to 
provide  a  substantial  allowance  for  his  mother, 
who,  for  some  years  previously,  had  lived  in 
London. 

On  learning  how  greatly  the  estate  was  im- 
poverished, she  declared  with  tears  in  her  eyes  that 
she  would  cut  down  expenses  and  "manage"  on 
eight  hundred  a  year;  but  as  she  was  a  very  bad 
bridge  player,  and  played  seven  nights  in  the  week, 
Leslie  interpreted  her  statements  as  a  pious  prayer 
to  fortune  rather  than  as  a  fact  upon  which  he 
could  rely.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  the  last  mort- 
gage upon  Gains  had  been  raised  within  a  few 
months  of  his  father's  death,  to  meet  the  losses  of 

[21] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

some  "terribly  unlucky  evenings";  and  such  his- 
tory is  most  apt  to  repeat  itself. 

Consultations  with  the  family  lawyer  left  him 
with  the  choice  between  marrying  an  heiress  and 
selling  Gains.  For  some  days  he  balanced  the 
disadvantages,  and  carefully  considered  the  girls 
of  his  acquaintance  who  were  reported  to  have 
more  than  a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  But  he 
could  find  none  with  whom  he  could  imagine  him- 
self living  happily  for  a  lifetime;  and  being,  at 
eight  and  twenty,  far  more  at  home  in  an  armchair 
at  his  club  than  in  a  stone  house  on  a  moor,  he 
chose  the  less  disagreeable  alternative  and  put 
Gains  on  the  market. 

As  in  the  case  of  Sir  Walter  Elliot,  of  Kellynch 
Hall,  the  ideal  purchaser  was  not  long  in  coming 
forward;  and  Tom  Vawdrey  was  so  obviously 
ideal  that  the  matter  was  settled,  and  the  deposit 
paid,  within  a  fortnight.  Any  one  who  cares  to 
look  him  up  in  Who's  Who  will  find  him  thus 
described : 

"Vawdrey,  Thomas,  of  Shrotton,  Yorks.,  and 
South  Audley  Street,  London.  Ironmaster.  Chair- 
man of  the  Shrotton  Coal  &  Iron  Co.,  Ltd.,  and 
owner  of  various  large  interests  in  the  Yorkshire 
coalfields.  Born,  3  July,  1854.  Educated,  Leeds 
Grammar  School.  Married,  21  May,  1887,  Mary, 
daughter  of  Francis  Kay,  of  London.  Clubs,  Re- 
form and  Garrick.  Recreations,  shooting  and 
fishing." 

He  was  one  of  Fortune's  favorites.  His  father 
[22] 


JEST 

had  worked  for  wages  all  his  life,  but  with  the 
development  of  the  Shrotton  coalfield  the  son's 
chance  came,  and  he  grasped  it  firmly  in  his  strong 
Yorkshire  hands.  At  thirty  he  was  a  rich  man; 
at  fifty  he  was  more  than  a  millionaire;  and,  more 
remarkable  still,  he  had  made  his  money  without 
incurring  envy  or  losing  a  friend.  He  was  as 
popular  among  the  class  from  which  he  had  sprung 
as  among  the  extravagant,  easy-going  set  in  which 
he  now  moved.  Indeed,  there  was  something 
lovable  in  him  which  few  could  resist:  he  was  so 
cheerful,  so  free  from  cares,  so  intent  on  having  a 
good  time,  and  so  anxious  that  every  one  else  should 
have  one. 

In  business  he  was  scrupulously  fair.  He  liked 
money,  and  spent  it  lavishly;  but  he  never  drove  an 
unconscionable  bargain,  and  he  never  tried  to  get 
the  better  of  his  workmen.  At  one  time  there  had 
been  trouble  at  the  Shrotton  pits,  and  a  strike  was 
declared.  It  was  midwinter,  and  the  men  were 
ill-provided  with  money,  so  that  within  a  week 
many  families  were  threatened  with  starvation. 
Vawdrey  could  easily  have  whipped  them  back  to 
work  under  pressure  of  hunger,  but  he  disregarded 
his  manager's  advice  and  took  a  different  line. 
He  telegraphed  to  Leeds,  and  had  a  complete  camp 
equipment  set  up  near  the  pit-heads.  Then  he  in- 
terviewed the  men's  leaders. 

"Now,  boys,"  he  said,  "there's  breakfast,  dinner, 
and  tea  for  every  woman  and  child  as  long  as  the 
strike  lasts.  That'll  set  you  free  from  thinking 

[23] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

about  them,  and  we  can  discuss  this  thing  on  level 
terms.  Send  in  a  deputation  to-morrow  morning, 
and  we'll  try  and  settle  it." 

Terms  were  soon  agreed,  and  one  of  the  leaders 
said  of  him  afterwards:  "He's  a  dirty  capitalist, 
but,  all  the  same,  he  treats  you  like  a  man." 
Probably  that  was  the  secret  of  his  success.  He 
treated  every  one  like  a  man  until  he  caught  him 
cheating.  Then  he  made  himself  extraordinarily 
unpleasant. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  III 

A  T  Gains  the  girls  of  the  party  usually  came 
*•  *-  down  to  breakfast  before  the  men,  and  on  the 
morning  after  the  episode  of  the  clocks  Ethel  and 
Hilda  were  exceptionally  early.  They  had  agreed 
that  Willie  Pfeiffer  could  not  possibly  go  to  sleep 
again  after  the  grand  slam  at  seven  o'clock,  and 
they  did  not  mean  to  miss  his  entry  into  the  dining- 
room. 

But  the  time  went  on  and  he  did  not  appear. 
At  nine  o'clock  the  door  opened  and  they  looked 
up  expectant;  but  it  was  only  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing. 

"Good  morning,"  Ethel  said. 

"Good  morning,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  answered, 
in  a  very  curt  voice. 

Then  she  added  vindictively:  "Oh,  you  wretched 
girls!" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  Hilda  asked. 

"I  simply  haven't  slept  a  wink.  Why  didn't  I 
stop  you,  or  ask  for  another  room?  I'm  just  worn 
out." 

"The  clocks!"  Ethel  exclaimed.  "Oh,  I  am 
sorry.  I  never  thought  you'd  hear  them  through 
the  wall." 

"There's  a  door  between,  you  know,"  Hilda 
reminded  her. 

"But  it's  got  a  thick  curtain  over  it.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  heard  them  all  ?  Or  was  it  only 
the  seven  o'clock  reveille?" 

[25] 


THE  WIDOWS  NECKLACE 

"My  dear,  I  heard  every  single  one  of  them.  I 
was  strongly  tempted  to  knock  up  Mr.  Pfeiffer  and 
tell  him  there  were  a  dozen  of  them,  and  that  he'd 
better  find  them  and  throw  them  out  of  the  win- 
dow. But  I  hate  to  spoil  sport." 

They  all  laughed,  and  Ethel  said : 

"You  poor  thing!  I  feel  perfectly  abject 
about  it." 

"I  wouldn't  have  minded  so  much,"  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing  complained,  "only  it's  my  belief  that  the 
wretch  slept  through  it." 

"Didn't  you  hear  him  moving  about?" 

"I  didn't  hear  a  sound,  except  those  miserable 
alarms.  And  then,  loud  snores." 

"Impossible!     They  must  have  woke  him." 

"I'm  certain  they  didn't.  At  seven,  when  they 
all  went  off  together,  I  heard  a  movement — as  if 
he  was  turning  over  in  bed." 

"Hush !    Here's  some  one  coming." 

It  was  Arthur  Drury;  but  a  few  minutes  later 
Willie  Pfeiffer  appeared.  He  looked  fresh  and 
healthy,  as  he  always  did,  and  showed  no  signs  of 
a  sleepless  night.  His  black  hair  was  brushed 
smoothly  back,  his  little  moustache  was  carefully 
trimmed  and  brilliantined,  and  his  eyes  were  clear 
and  bright.  The  girls  stared  at  him  in  fascinated 
amazement. 

His  first  glance  was,  as  ever,  at  Ethel.  And  she 
replied  to  it  by  wishing  him  good  morning  and 
asking  how  he  had  slept. 

"A  1,  thanks.  I  defy  any  one  to  keep  awake  in 
[26] 


JEST 

Scotland  after  midnight.  Hope  I  didn't  snore, 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing?" 

"Oh — er — not  more  than  usual,"  she  answered. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
that  joke's  wearing  thin  at  last?  It's  only  been 
running  since  Tuesday." 

"My  good  man,"  she  answered,  with  sudden 
energy,  "if  you  slept  in  the  next  room  to  yourself 
you'd  find  there  wasn't  any  joke  about  it." 

"Architectural  problem,"  said  Drury,  as  he  be- 
gan on  the  cold  grouse.  "Can  you  sleep  in  the 
next  room  to  yourself?" 

"My  problem  is  how  to  sleep  in  the  next  room 
to  Mr.  Pfeiffer." 

"This  is  too  brilliant  for  me,"  Pfeiffer  declared. 
"My  brain's  a  bit  sluggish  in  the  morning.  Please, 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  please  drop  your  rapier  until 
after  lunch." 

"It's  a  shame  to  tease  Rip,"  Drury  said.  "Let 
him  eat  his  porridge." 

"Yes.  Live  and  let  live,  that's  what  /  say," 
Pfeiffer  put  in. 

"Sleep  and  let  sleep — I  wish  you'd  say  that  in- 
stead," Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  retorted. 

Pfeiffer  laid  down  his  spoon  and  glanced  round 
the  table  with  imploring  eyes. 

"She  won't  leave  me  alone,"  he  wailed.  "Miss 
Vawdrey,  please  draw  her  fire  while  I  eat  a  morsel. 
Really,  you  know,  I'm  hungry." 

"He  shall,  he  shall,"  Ethel  answered,  with  danc- 
ing, smiling  eyes. 

[27] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Hilda,  who  could  not  believe  that  he  had  not 
heard  the  alarms,  had  been  watching  him  sus- 
piciously. She  guessed  that  he  meant  to  disappoint 
them  by  pretending  that  he  had  slept  as  soundly 
as  usual,  and  she  was  not  going  to  resign  herself  to 
that  without  a  struggle. 

"/  couldn't  sleep  last  night,"  she  said,  raising 
her  voice  a  little  to  attract  attention.  "I  think  it 
must  have  been  something  at  dinner,  for  I  so  sel- 
dom lie  awake.  Didn't  you  feel  it,  Mr.  Pfeiffer?" 

"I?    Not  a  bit,"  he  answered  openly. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  slept  right  on  till  you 
were  called?"  she  pressed. 

"Well,  almost.  I  woke  once — about  seven; 
some  one  was  ringing  a  bell  like  mad.  I  thought 
it  was  the  telephone  in  my  chambers,  till  I  remem- 
bered where  I  was." 

Then,  catching  the  expression  of  mingled  in- 
credulity and  disappointment  on  her  face,  and 
glancing  quickly  at  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  and  at 
Ethel,  light  broke  upon  him.  They  had  been  try- 
ing a  practical  joke  on  him !  Some  foolery  with 
an  electric  bell ! 

"You've  been  up  to  something,"  he  cried.  "The 
old  joke  with  a  new  face  on  it.  I  thought  it  couldn't 
have  died  so  easily.  What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing,"  Hilda  answered,  as  the 
three  of  them  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Nothing?"  Pfeiffer  cried.  "Come,  now,  that 
won't  wash.  You've  been  fooling  with  the  bells, 
trying  to  wake  me  up." 

"Nothing,  really  nothing,"  Ethel  gasped. 
[28] 


JEST 

"Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  Pfeiffer  went  on, 
"I  found  something  uncommonly  odd  in  my  boot 
cupboard  this  morning.  I  thought  at  first  it  was 
part  of  the  wash,  but  when  I  pulled  it  out  it  was  a 
clock  wrapped  up  in  a  cloth.  And  I  found  another 
just  like  it  in  the  wardrobe,  hung  up  among  my 
coats." 

"Any  more?"  Hilda  asked.  The  laughter  had 
become  almost  hysterical. 

"Any  more?  You  don't  mean  to  say  there  were 
any  more?" 

"Only  a  few." 

With  a  gesture  of  despair  Pfeiffer  turned  to 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing. 

"Did  you  have  a  hand  in  this?"  he  asked. 

"A  hand  in  what?" 

"In  this  clock  joke.  I  suppose  it  was  a  joke, 
wasn't  it?  You  all  seem  frightfully  amused." 

"I  wasn't  a  bit  amused,  I  can  assure  you.  I 
seem  to  have  been  the  only  person  who  heard  the 
abominable  things." 

"Well,  I'm  awfully  sorry  I  didn't  do  what  was 
expected  of  me.  I'd  have  kept  awake  if  I'd 
known." 

"You  couldn't,"  Ethel  dared. 

"I  don't  believe  you  could,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
said  with  judicial  precision.  "Any  one  who  can 
sleep  through  five  American  alarms,  and  think  it 
was  the  telephone  when  seven  more  go  off  together 
in  his  ear,  cannot  have  any  self-control  whatever." 

Before  Pfeiffer  could  retort,  Sir  Charles  Benyon 
sauntered  in. 

[29] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Mornin',"  he  said.    "You're  all  very  early  this 
rnin'." 

Tes,"    said    Drury,     "there's    been    a    joke, 
Pfeiffer's  been  caught  napping." 

"In  the  act?" 

"In  the  act — red-handed — flagrante  delicto." 

Sir  Charles  unfolded  his  napkin  and  put  up  his 
eyeglass,  saying  in  the  slow,  drawling  voice  he 
affected : 

"Very  sad.  Sorry  for  you,  Willie.  Comes  of 
not  obeyin'  doctor's  orders.  Why  did  you  forget 
your  Vinolia  pill?" 

Pfeiffer  thumped  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"If  you  people,"  he  protested,  "can't  get  a  new 
joke  by  this  evening,  I  swear  I'll  leave  the  house." 

Fraser,  coming  into  the  room,  caught  only  the 
last  words. 

"Why  will  you  leave  the  house?"  he  asked. 

"To  retrieve  his  reputation,"  Sir  Charles  said. 
"Canada,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  A  new 
life  in  a  new  country." 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Willie?"  Fraser 
asked. 

"I've  committed  the  regrettable  crime  of  dis- 
appointing Miss  Vawdrey.  She  never  told  me  I 
had  to  wake  up  when  the  bell  rang,  so  of  course  I 
didn't.  And  that  spoiled  the  joke." 

"You  haven't  spoiled  the  joke,"  Ethel  laughed. 
"You've  made  it  ever  so  much  better." 

"If  I  may  advise  you,"  Drury  said  to  her,  "I 
suggest  a  cartridge  with  a  time-fuse  for  to-night." 
[30] 


CHAPTER  IV 

OON  after  breakfast  the  men  went  out  shoot- 
ing.  Pfeiffer,  who  was  usually  the  best  shot 
of  the  party,  seemed  preoccupied,  and  found  him- 
self missing  every  other  bird;  and  when  they  re- 
turned to  the  house  he  was  silent  and  took  little 
part  in  the  conversation.  Later,  in  the  billiard- 
room,  he  drew  Eraser  and  Drury  aside,  saying: 

"Look  here,  what  are  we  going  to  do  to  wipe 
out  the  memory  of  the  clocks?  I've  been  racking 
my  brain  all  day  about  it." 

"H'm,"  said  Drury,  "it's  difficult.  We  can't  do 
apple-pie  beds  again." 

"Of  course  not.  We've  got  to  find  something 
absolutely  fresh  and  unexpected.  Those  clocks  were 
a  damned  clever  idea,  and  I  was  a  perfect  idiot 
not  to  spot  them." 

"Didn't  you  really  hear  them?"  Fraser  asked. 

"Not  a  blessed  one,  except  the  last  lot;  and 
then  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it.  I  suppose  I  do 
sleep  pretty  sound  when  I'm  fairly  off." 

"You'll  never  hear  the  last  of  it,"  Drury  said, 
laughing. 

"Unless  we  can  wipe  it  out  by  a  better  retort. 
We  simply  must.  I've  been  hatching  out  an 
elaborate  post-office  hoax,  with  telegrams  and  so 
on.  But  there  isn't  much  in  it." 

"There  are  booby  traps,"  Fraser  suggested. 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Oh,  they're  rotten — pillows  on  top  of  your  head 
and  all  that.  Besides,  girls  hate  having  their  hair 
rumpled." 

"Can't  you  suggest  anything?"  Eraser  asked, 
turning  to  Drury. 

"Hanged  if  I  can." 

"Couldn't  we  work  a  telegram — 'All  is  dis- 
covered, fly  at  once' — that  sort  of  thing?" 

"There's  nothing  in  it,"  Pfeiffer  reiterated  with 
some  impatience.  "I  thought  of  that.  We  want 
something  new." 

Drury,  staring  into  the  grate,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  suddenly  looked  up,  saying : 

"Let's  hide  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  necklace." 

Pfeiffer  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Good  man !"  he  cried.    "That's  brilliant." 

"Brilliants,  you  mean,"  Drury  returned,  with  a 
grin.  "And  devilish  expensive  ones,  too." 

"What's  it  worth?"  Eraser  asked. 

"Twenty  thou.    My  firm  has  insured  it  for  that." 

"In  that  case,  you'd  better  do  the  hiding," 
Pfeiffer  said.  "Then  you  won't  have  any  nervous 
qualms.  It  might  spoil  your  dinner  if  it  didn't 
turn  up  when  it's  wanted." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  worry  unduly.  We've  laid  off 
all  the  risk  except  a  thousand." 

"Gad!  We  shall  hear  her  screams  for  miles 
when  she  find  it's  gone,"  Pfeiffer  said,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "When  shall  we  do  it  ?  It  ought  to  be  be- 
fore dinner." 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  Fraser  answered,  look- 
[32] 


JEST 

ing  at  his  watch.  "It's  not  half  past  six 
yet." 

"Good.  We'll  hide  it  now,"  Pfeiffer  said. 
"And  about  eight  o'clock,  when  she  goes  to  put  it 
on,  the  fun  will  begin.  We  can  keep  it  up  till 
nearly  nine,  even  if  it  does  spoil  the  dinner." 

"It'll  rather  miss  fire  if  she  doesn't  mean  to  wear 
it  to-night,"  Drury  suggested. 

"Oh,  she  always  does." 

"Where  does  she  keep  it?"  Fraser  asked. 

"Don't  know,"  Drury  answered.  "We  shall 
have  to  get  hold  of  her  maid  and  take  her  into 
partnership." 

"Well,  you  two  run  up  and  do  it,"  Pfeiffer  said. 
"I'll  stay  here  in  case  any  of  them  come  in  and  ask 
questions." 

"What  are  you  fellows  whispering  about?" 
Vawdrey  asked,  coming  toward  them  with  a  cue 
in  his  hand.  He  had  just  finished  a  game  with  Sir 
Charles. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  Pfeiffer  answered  blandly. 

"There's  some  mischief  afoot,  I'm  sure.  We'd 
better  be  in  it — eh,  Benyon?" 

"No,  this  is  a  juvenile  comedy;  there's  no  room 
for  you.  You've  got  to  play  the  heavy  father, 
with  a  clean  handkerchief  and  a  white  beard. 
Benyon  can  be  the  wicked  baronet;  he  doesn't  want 
any  make-up  for  that." 

"Willie,  if  you  make  me  an  apple-pie  bed,  I'll 
drag  you  out  in  your  pyjamas,  and  make  you  apol- 
ogize on  your  knees,"  Vawdrey  said  severely. 

"You're  quite  safe.     By  the  laws  of  drama  the 

[33] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

heavy  father  is  sacred  from  molestation — except  at 
the  hands  of  the  wicked  baronet.  You  ought  to 
know  that." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  the  heavy  father.  I  never 
could  snivel.  If  I  can't  be  the  hero,  I'll  be  the 
lady's  friend,  a  la  Wyndham,  and  hold  her  hand. 
So  just  tell  me  what  it's  all  about." 

"No,  no,  no!"  Pfeiffer  cried.  "Run  off,  you 
fellows;  I'll  keep  Mr.  Vawdrey  in  play." 

He  caught  Vawdrey  by  the  lappets  of  his  coat, 
and  they  engaged  in  a  friendly  struggle  while 
Drury  and  Fraser  escaped  from  the  room. 

To  avoid  attention,  they  went  by  the  back-stairs, 
and  picked  up  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  maid  on  the 
way.  Drury  whispered  to  Fraser: 

"What  shall  I  give  her — a  kiss  or  a  sovereign  ?" 

"Sovereign's  best,  and  comes  cheaper  in  the 
end." 

The  maid,  a  quick-witted,  laughter-loving  French 
girl,  entered  into  the  joke  at  once.  She  took  them 
into  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room  and  showed  them 
the  small,  flat  jewel-case  in  which  the  necklace  lay 
by  itself  on  one  shelf  of  the  dressing-table.  It  was 
not  locked,  for  in  London  all  the  jewelry  was  kept 
together  in  a  safe,  and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was 
wise  enough  to  know  that  a  lock  is  no  protection 
to  the  thin,  leather-covered  boxes  which  have  to  be 
used  when  travelling. 

Drury  pressed  the  spring,  and  the  lid  flew  open. 

"Ripping,  isn't  it!"  he  said,  as  the  light  flashed 
upon  it. 

[34] 


JEST 

"Take  it  out,"  Fraser  said  quietly. 

"By  Jove!  It's  worth  bagging.  With  that  in 
your  pocket — and  what  ho !  for  the  Continong." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  Then, 
turning  to  the  maid,  Drury  added: 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle.  You  can  now  leave 
us  while  we  make  the  necklace  disappear.  When 
madame  asks  for  it  this  evening,  ask  her  where  she 
has  put  it,  with  appropriate  gestures  of  surprise  and 
horror." 

"Oui,  monsieur.     Je  comprends  parfaitement." 

"Monsieur  Fraser  and  I  will  miss  that  part  of 
the  play,  which  I  am  sure  you  will  do  excellently. 
Then  you  must  ring  the  bell  as  hard  as  you  can, 
and  cry  out,  and  we  shall  rush  in — do  you  see?" 

"Oui,  monsieur." 

"That's  all  right,  then." 

She  went  out  and  closed  the  door,  but  the  two 
men  did  not  move.  They  were  looking  at  the  neck- 
lace, feasting  their  eyes  upon  it  as  it  hung  on 
Drury's  hand — a  miniature  river  of  ice  and  fire. 
They  stood  there  for  a  full  minute,  until  Fraser 
broke  the  spell  by  saying  suddenly  and  rather 
curtly : 

"Where's  it  to  go?" 

"Under  the  pillow,"  Drury  answered,  with  a 
glance  round  the  room. 

He  put  the  necklace  back  in  its  case,  and  went 
toward  the  bed,  the  head  of  which  was  against  the 
inner  wall,  facing  the  windows.  He  carefully 
turned  back  the  sheet,  and  pushed  the  case  between 

[35] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

the  pillow  and  the  bolster.  Then,  opening  the 
door,  he  tiptoed  along  the  corridor  followed  by 
Fraser. 

Pfeiffer  was  still  in  the  billiard-room. 

"All  right?"  he  asked,  as  they  entered. 

Drury  nodded. 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Under  the  pillow." 

"Good." 

Vawdrey  and  Sir  Charles  had  begun  another 
game,  and  the  others  did  not  stay  long.  Fraser 
went  to  his  room,  to  write  to  his  mother,  who,  at 
Dinard,  had  suffered  a  new  series  of  "terribly  un- 
lucky evenings."  Drury,  also,  had  arrears  of  cor- 
respondence on  his  mind,  and  Pfeiffer  went  to  the 
gun-room.  It  was  agreed  that  they  should  dress 
early  and  meet  in  the  hall  at  eight  o'clock. 


[36] 


CHAPTER  V 

dinner-hour  at  Gains  was  nominally  a 
quarter  past  eight,  but  no  one  was  ever  punc- 
tual, and  Gibson  usually  allowed  them  ten  minutes' 
grace.  So,  when  Fraser  came  slowly  down  the 
staircase  as  the  clock  was  striking  eight,  only 
Pfeiffer  and  Drury  were  in  the  hall.  He  strolled 
up  and  joined  them  in  front  of  the  fire.  He  looked 
tired,  and  rather  worried,  as  if  his  letter  to  his 
mother  had  not  been  an  easy  one  to  write. 

Neither  Drury  nor  Pfeiffer  said  anything.  The 
house  was  unusually  silent,  for  every  one  was 
dressing,  and  the  servants  were  busy  in  their  quar- 
ters with  the  preparations  for  dinner.  Outside  a 
dog  began  to  bark,  and  footsteps  approached, 
crunching  the  gravel,  and  died  away  again.  Then 
a  door  banged,  leaving  the  silence  more  noticeable 
than  before. 

A  feeling  of  suspense  and  discomfort  settled 
upon  the  conspirators.  Drury  was  seized  with 
nervousness,  beginning  to  fear  that  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  might  take  the  joke  amiss  and  be  offended. 
He  wished  he  had  not  suggested  it;  jokes  were 
always  dangerous,  and  one  never  knew  how  a 
woman  was  going  to  look  at  them.  And  with 
things  as  they  were  between  them  it  was  idiotic  to 
run  risks. 

Pfeiffer,   too,   in   the  period  of  waiting,   grew 

[37] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

somewhat  apprehensive.  He  did  not  know  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  very  intimately,  and  it  would  be  tire- 
some if  she  got  angry  at  being  hoaxed.  The  thing 
did  not  look  quite  so  funny  as  when  Drury  had  first 
proposed  it.  Still,  it  had  to  be  carried  through 
now.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  shut  it  with 
a  snap. 

"I  feel  like  Guy  Fawkes,"  he  said. 

Fraser  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 

Suddenly  a  bell  rang — a  loud,  long,  excited  peal. 

"That's  it,"  Fraser  said.  "Now  for  mademoi- 
selle's scream  and  we'll  rush  up." 

They  waited,  but  the  scream  did  not  come.  In- 
stead, they  heard  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  and 
a  murmur  of  voices  which  ceased  almost  imme- 
diately. 

"She's  forgotten  her  part,"  Drury  said. 

In  a  moment  Gibson,  the  portly  butler,  appeared 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  came  toward  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  servants 
who  claimed  the  privilege  of  using  the  main  stair- 
case. 

"What's  up,  Gibson?"  Pfeiffer  asked. 

"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  wishes  to  see  the  master, 
sir." 

"What  for?" 

"She  did  not  say,  sir,"  Gibson  answered,  in  a 
tone  of  grave  reproval. 

He  moved  on,  and  the  three  men  exchanged 
doubtful  glances. 

"Shall  we  go  up?"  Pfeiffer  asked. 
[38] 


JEST 

"Better  wait,"  Drury  answered.  "We  shall  hear 
something  in  a  moment." 

They  heard  Gibson  knock,  and  presently  Vaw- 
drey  was  seen  going  toward  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
room.  Hilda  Carew,  on  her  way  down,  halted  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  then  walked  on  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  The  Benyons,  too,  gave 
way  to  curiosity  and  followed  her. 

"Come  on,"  Pfeiffer  said.  "We  mustn't  miss 
any  more." 

As  they  expected,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  door 
was  open  and  a  good  deal  of  eager  conversation 
was  going  on  in  the  room.  Sir  Charles,  with 
eyeglass  fixed,  was  standing  impassive  on  the 
threshold. 

"What's  up?"  Pfeiffer  inquired,  with  successful 
carelessness. 

Sir  Charles  turned  slowly  toward  him  and 
stared,  as  he  always  did  when  asked  a  sudden 
question. 

"Burglars,"  he  said,  after  his  usual  period  of 
deliberation.  "They've  got  the  necklace." 

Pfeiffer  whistled,  and  pushed  past  him  into  the 
room.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  glancing  swiftly  from 
one  to  another  with  anxious  wide-open  eyes,  was 
saying  for  the  tenth  time  that  she  kept  it  in  the  case 
on  her  dressing-table,  and  had  put  it  there  last 
night. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  Vawdrey  said,  rather  im- 
patiently. "But  either  you  or  your  maid  must  have 
moved  it.  Look  in  the  cupboards  and  places." 

[39] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"I  declare  I  haven't,  and  I've  asked  Celeste, 
too.  Ask  her  yourself  if  you  don't  believe  me.  I 
tell  you  it's  gone." 

Vawdrey  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  caught 
sight  of  the  newcomers,  and  an  idea  flashed  into 
his  mind.  He  drew  Pfeiffer  aside,  while  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  buttonholed  Arthur  Drury  and  be- 
gan her  story  afresh,  showing  a  strong  inclination 
to  burst  into  tears  on  his  shoulder. 

"Willie,  this  is  some  of  your  deviltry,  I  sup- 
pose?" Vawdrey  whispered.  "If  you  think  I'm 
going  to  play  heavy  father  in  this  act  you're  mis- 
taken." 

"Don't  give  it  away,"  Pfeiffer  pleaded.  "It'll 
be  found  before  we  sit  down  to  dinner." 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  I'll  see  to  that.  I'll  give  you  ten 
minutes'  run  before  I  expose  you." 

"Oh,  more  than  that — please." 

"Not  a  second.    I  hate  waiting  for  dinner." 

"All  right.  We'll  have  a  hot  search  for  ten 
minutes.  Give  me  a  wink  when  time's  up." 

He  turned  to  the  others,  saying  in  a  loud  voice : 

"It  can't  really  be  lost.  Let's  all  search  the 
room.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  have  we  your  permis- 
sion to  pry  into  the  mysteries?" 

"You  may  turn  the  room  upside  down,  if  only 
you'll  find  it.  But  I  know  you  won't.  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey, I  wish  you'd  send  for  the  police." 

Ethel,  who  had  just  come  in,  joined  Lady 
Benyon  and  Hilda  in  examining  the  wardrobe, 
while  Celeste  hovered  round  them,  making  voluble 
comments  in  French. 

[40] 


JEST 

"Don't  look  in  the  bottom  drawer,"  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing  screamed.  "There's  a  new  frock,  and 
you're  not  to  see  it." 

The  men,  with  the  exception  of  Vawdrey — who 
stood  with  his  watch  in  his  hand — occupied  them- 
selves in  shaking  the  curtains,  peering  under  the 
furniture,  and  opening  the  drawers  of  the  writing 
table.  At  first,  Eraser  and  Drury  were  rather 
lethargic;  but,  urged  on  by  Pfeiffer,  they  warmed 
to  the  sport.  Soon  they  were  moving  all  the  furni- 
ture into  the  middle  of  the  room,  in  case,  as  they 
explained,  the  necklace  should  have  slipped  behind 
anything. 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  watched  their  efforts  with 
angry  scorn  in  her  eyes.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
they  were  obviously  struggling  with  suppressed 
merriment,  the  idea  of  a  practical  joke  had  not  yet 
entered  her  mind. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  viciously,  "you  men  think 
I'm  an  absolute  idiot.  It's  just  likely  that  a  sane 
woman  would  put  a  diamond  necklace  under  the 
bed,  isn't  it?" 

Pfeiffer,  lying  prone  on  the  floor,  to  watch  for 
any  clue  which  the  moving  of  the  bed  might  re- 
veal, buried  his  face  in  the  thick  carpet  and  wrestled 
for  self-control. 

"There's  nothing  here  but  these,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing up  a  pair  of  very  elegant  bedroom  slippers. 

Vawdrey  grinned,  saying: 

"They're  something  we  haven't  seen  before, 
anyway." 

The  girls,  who  had  finished  ransacking  the  ward- 


robe,  stood  wondering  what  was  to  be  done  next. 
They  did  not  suspect  a  hoax,  and  the  thought  of  a 
burglar's  visit  frightened  them. 

"Father,  won't  you  let  the  police  know?"  Ethel 
asked.  "The  man  may  still  be  in  the  neighbor- 
hood." 

"I  shall  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  answered,  pitch- 
ing his  words  at  Pfeiffer. 

At  that  moment  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner. 

"Ring  for  Gibson,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey 
said.  "We  can't  go  down  just  yet.  And  we'd 
better  have  the  maids  up  and  question  them ;  they 
may  have  moved  it  when  they  dusted." 

Vawdrey  rang,  and  presently  Gibson's  broad 
figure  filled  the  doorway.  He  did  not  know  why 
every  one  was  congregated  in  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
room,  and,  even  if  he  had  known,  he  would  not 
have  held  dinner  back  without  the  most  explicit 
instructions.  He  lived  in  a  madcap  household,  and 
if  it  should  ever  arrive  that  the  dinner  hour  was  to 
be  liable  to  variation  without  due  notice  the  last 
and  chief  anchorage  of  his  orderly  mind  would  be 
gone. 

"You  rang,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    Send  the  housemaids  up  here." 

"Yes,  sir.    Dinner  is  served,  sir." 

"I  know  it  is;  we  shall  be  down  directly." 

"Don't   talk   of   dinner,"    Mrs.    Dayrell-Wing 
cried.     "I  sha'n't  move  from  this  room  till  the 
police  come.    It's  perfectly  heartless  of  you  to  think 
of  eating  when  I'm  in  such  distress." 
[42] 


JEST 

"It  is  indeed — simply  heroic,"  Pfeiffer  chimed 
in,  with  a  show  of  indignation. 

"Gallioic,  don't  you  mean?"  Fraser  murmured. 

Pfeiffer  ignored  the  amendment,  and  said  to 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing: 

"But  you  are  insured,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  thanks  to  Mr.  Drury.  But  I  shall  hate 
taking  the  money  from  him.  I  never  thought  I 
should  have  to  or  I  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

"My  dear  old  boy,"  Pfeiffer  said,  drawing  a 
long  face  at  Drury,  "this  is  a  nasty  knock  for  you." 

The  housemaids  now  appeared,  hovering  at  the 
door,  and  in  answer  to  the  same  or  similar  ques- 
tions repeated  a  dozen  times,  they  declared  that  the 
jewel-case  had  been  on  the  dressing-table  that  morn- 
ing, and  that  they  had  not  touched  it.  Then  they 
withdrew,  to  stir  the  servants'  hall  with  the  story 
of  the  robbery. 

Vawdrey,  hungry  after  his  day's  shooting,  de- 
cided to  cut  short  the  last  act  of  the  comedy. 

"Now,"  he  said,  moving  toward  Pfeiffer,  "in 
twro  minutes  I'm  going  down  to  dinner.  Have  you 
fellows  looked  everywhere?" 

"Afraid  we  have — at  least  everywhere  except  the 
bed.  It  might  have  been  put  there." 

"Who  by,  I  should  like  to  know?"  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing demanded  with  quick  fury. 

"Well,  don't  you  ever  sleep  with  it  under  your 
pillow?  I  should  have  thought  a  valuable  thing 
like  that " 

"Never." 

[43] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Anyway,  there's  a  lump  of  some  sort  here,"  he 
said,  thumping  the  pillow. 

He  thrust  his  hand  in  and  drew  out  the  jewel- 
case.  There  was  a  moment  of  gasping  silence. 
Then  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  cried: 

"You  wretch!  You  put  it  there.  I  know  you 
did." 

Pfeiffer  maintained  his  grave  expression. 

"Joy  never  kills,"  he  said.  "But  temporarily  it 
has  been  known  to  cause  hallucinations.  Very  sad." 

"You're  a  graceless  hooligan,"  she  went  on,  half 
laughing  and  half  angry,  as  she  took  the  case  from 
Pfeiffer.  "I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

"Perfectly  monstrous,"  Ethel  joined  in,  holding 
herself  very  erect. 

"Et  tu — Beauty?"  the  irrepressible  Pfeiffer 
asked. 

Then  every  one  laughed,  and  Ethel  colored  up 
and  looked  prettier  than  ever.  Her  flirtation  with 
Willie  Pfeiffer  had  been  serious  enough  to  give  a 
new  point  to  the  old  quip. 

"Come  along  now.  Dinner's  waiting,"  Vawdrey 
cut  in.  "Let's  all  kiss  and  be  friends,  or  we  sha'n't 
get  any  food  to-night." 

"By  all  means,"  Pfeiffer  cried.  "I  love  kissing 
and  being  friends.  Where  do  I  begin?" 

Vawdrey  caught  him  by  the  elbows  and  ran  him 
out  of  the  room,  singing:  "Fall  in  and  follow  me." 
The  others  crowded  behind  them,  and  in  a  minute 
they  were  all  eating  the  rather  tepid  soup  which  had 
been  waiting  for  them. 

[44] 


CHAPTER  VI 

T7~AWDREY,  who  was  rather  particular  about 
*  his  food,  laid  down  his  spoon,  saying: 

"Willie,  like  Augustus,  has  let  our  soup  get 
cold." 

"  'And  on  the  fifth  day  he  was  dead,'  Hilda 
quoted.  "Poetic  justice." 

"I  don't  think  so;  it  was  probably  the  cook's 
fault.  He  said  the  soup  was  nasty." 

"If  glances  could  kill,"  Pfeiffer  complained,  "I 
could  not  hope  for  even  four  more  days  in  the  sun- 
shine of  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  society." 

"Are  you  speaking  to  me?"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
asked.  "If  so,  pray  don't  imagine  that  I  would 
honor  you  with  a  glance  even  for  the  purpose  of 
removing  you  from  my  path." 

"Have  you  a  path?  I  thought  one  so  lovely 
could  only  dwell  among  the  untrodden  ways." 

"Yes.  Four  doors  from  Grosvenor  Square," 
she  answered  crisply. 

"What  a  change  from  Shepherd's  Bush!" 

To  Gibson's  extreme  annoyance,  the  second  foot- 
man sniggered.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  appealed  to 
the  table  with  outstretched  arms. 

"Now,  do  I  look  as  if  I  came  from  Shepherd's 
Bush?"  she  demanded. 

[45] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"It  must  have  been  in  the  pre-necklace  period," 
Vawdrey  said.  "Before  the  stone  age,  in  fact." 

Pfeiffer  bent  toward  her  with  a  smile,  saying; 

"Of  course.  Now  you  mention  it,  I  remember 
you  perfectly.  It  was  about  B.C.  a  million,  at  a 
cave-warming  close  to  the  White  City.  You  were 
wearing  a  very  fetching  rabbit  skin,  with  a  dis- 
tinctly Frenchy  cut  about  it." 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  tried  not  to  laugh.  She  was 
really  a  good  deal  annoyed  with  Pfeiffer  for  fright- 
ening her  about  her  necklace,  and  she  would  have 
liked  to  snub  him  into  a  proper  state  of  contrition. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  stand  aloof  when  the  table 
was  rocking  with  merriment,  and  after  a  momen- 
tary struggle  she  gave  way. 

"You'd  better  not  describe  any  more,"  Lady 
Benyon  said  to  Pfeiffer. 

"Oh,  there  wasn't  any  more,"  he  answered. 

The  second  footman  ruined  his  prospects  for- 
ever by  making  a  sudden  dash  for  the  door. 

Mrs.  Vawdrey,  who  preserved  an  unfashionable 
capacity  for  being  shocked,  thought  that  Willie 
Pfeiffer  had  "gone  too  far."  And,  with  a  view  to 
closing  the  subject,  she  summed  it  up  with  the 
remark : 

"I'm  sure  dear  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  would  look 
charming  whatever  she  wore." 

When  the  ladies  had  left  the  room  the  subject  of 
the  necklace  again  came  uppermost. 

"I  say,  Drury,"  Vawdrey  said,  "you'd  have 
[46] 


JEST 

looked  a  bit  green  if  you  hadn't  been  in  the 
plot— eh?" 

"Well,  rather.  It  would  have  been  a  nasty 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

"But  you  don't  stand  to  lose  the  whole  amount, 
do  you?" 

"Good  Lord,  no.  A  risk  like  that  is  spread  over 
several  firms." 

"So  it  isn't  a  matter  of  committing  suicide  if  it 
^oes  wrong?"  Pfeiffer  asked. 

"No.     But  it  wouldn't  be  exactly  pleasant." 

"I  suppose  you  get  big  losses  sometimes?"  Eraser 
L  iggested.  "Otherwise  people  wouldn't  insure." 

"We  don't  reckon  to  get  many,  or  we  wouldn't 
do  it  at  the  price." 

"We  had  a  fire  at  Shrotton  last  year,"  Vawdrey 
said,  "and  rather  a  nice  picture  which  hung  over 
the  chimney  piece  was  damaged.  I'd  given  a  hun- 
dred and  twyenty  guineas  for  it  at  the  Academy,  and 
I  claimed  that;  and  after  fussing  a  bit  they  paid  it." 

"Oh,  they  pay  all  right,  as  long  as  they  don't 
suspect  fraud." 

The  conversation  halted,  and  then  swung  back 
again  to  the  necklace,  Vawdrey  saying: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  history  of  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  necklace  ?  She  told  me  the  other  day, 
though  I  fancy  she  generally  keeps  it  to  herself. 
There's  rather  a  nasty  story  hanging  to  it." 

"Oh?  What  is  it?"  Pfeiffer  asked,  as  he  lighted 
his  cigar. 

[47] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

\ 

"It  came  from  Paris.  Aren't  you  smoking, 
Fraser?  Have  a  small  one." 

"No,  thanks." 

Vawdrey  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table 
and  went  on : 

"It's  some  years  ago  now.  At  that  time  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  was  living  in  Melbourne,  and  her 
husband  used  to  come  to  Europe  every  twelve 
months  or  so  on  business.  She  generally  came  with 
him,  but  on  his  last  visit  something  happened  to 
prevent  her;  and,  to  make  up  for  it,  he  determined 
o  take  her  back  a  real  good  present." 

"As  he  ought,"  Pfeiffer  said. 

"Well,  he  looked  at  all  the  usual  things,  but 
nothing  pleased  him.  Then,  one  day,  he  saw  an 
advertisement  in  the  paper  of  some  jewels  which 
were  to  be  sold  at  the  Hotel  Dronot,  and  he  went 
to  have  a  look  at  them.  The  necklace  caught  his 
eye  at  once,  and  after  consulting  an  expert  he  left 
it  in  his  hands  to  buy  it  for  him." 

"What  did  he  give  for  it?" 

"I  think  about  half  a  million  francs.  There 
were  several  buyers  after  it,  and  when  the  business 
was  settled  the  man  congratulated  him  on  having 
got  it;  for,  he  said,  it  was  probably  matchless. 
And  then  he  told  him  all  about  it.  It  had  been  got 
together  and  made  up  to  the  order  of  one  of  those 
fabulously  rich  Brazilians  who  go  to  Paris  to  amuse 
themselves." 

"I  know.     They're  a  stock  character  in  French 
novels  from  Balzac's  'Henri  MonteY  onward." 
[48] 


JEST 

"Well,  this  one  fell  very  much  in  love  with  a 
lady,  and  laid  violent  siege  to  her.  But  apparently 
she  didn't  like  him — or,  at  all  events,  she  liked 
"ome  one  else  better.  The  Brazilian  scattered  the 
greater  part  of  half  a  dozen  jewelers'  shops  at  her 
lovely  feet,  but  it  didn't  have  the  desired  effect, 
and  he  began  to  feel  that  life  was  a  burden." 

"Mais  il  y  a  d'  autres,"  Fraser  murmured. 

"Oh,  quite  so;  but  his  eye  was  prejudiced.  At 
last  he  went  nap  on  this  necklace,  which  he  ordered 
specially;  and  all  Europe  was  ransacked  to  match 
the  stones  and  make  it  the  finest  thing  possible  of 
its  kind?" 

"And ?" 

"That  settled  it.  She  consented  to  make  him  the 
happiest  man  on  earth,  and  for  a  time  she  suc- 
ceeded. But  he  was  a  jealous,  suspicious  sort  of 
cove,  and  before  long  he  began  to  suspect  that  he 
hadn't  got  all  he  bargained  for.  He  set  a  trap— 
and  she  fell  into  it.  There  was  a  royal  row — frantic 
recriminations,  tears,  curses,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — 
and  it  ended  in  her  tearing  off  the  necklace  and 
throwing  it  on  the  floor,  telling  him  to  take  it  back 
and  get  out  of  her  sight." 

"Well?"  Pfeiffer  asked,  keenly  interested. 

"He  turned  livid,  for  he  was  desperately  fond 
of  her;  but  for  a  moment  he  did  not  say  a  word. 
Then,  quite  quietly  and  politely,  he  picked  up  the 
necklace  and  begged  her  pardon  for  having  caused 
a  scene.  But,  he  said,  he  could  not  allow  her  to 
return  it.  When  he  gave  a  present  he  did  not  take 

[49] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

it  back  again,  and  she  must  do  him  the  honor  of 
wearing  the  necklace  as  long  as  she  lived.  With 
that  he  put  it  round  her  neck,  and  drew  the  ends 
tight  in  his  hands  with  all  his  force. 

"Strangled  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Pah !    What  a  beastly  story  I" 

"Isn't  it?" 

"Still,  it's  a  magnificent  necklace,"  Drury  said. 

"Oh,  quite,"  Vawdrey  answered,  as  he  rose. 
"But  I'm  superstitious  enough  not  to  want  it  my- 
self. There's  blood  on  it." 


[50] 


CHAPTER  VII 

'  I  AHE  hoaxing  of  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  and  the 
-*-  hilarious  dinner  which  followed,  had  pitched 
the  mood  of  the  party  too  high  for  the  usual  game 
of  bridge  or  pool;  and  when  the  men  came  from 
the  dining-room  an  impromptu  dance  was  sug- 
gested. 

"Oh,  do  let's!"  Ethel  cried.  "Mother  will 
play — won't  you,  mother?" 

"Of  course  I  will,  dear.  You  had  better  ring 
for  Gibson  to  push  back  the  chairs  and  move  the 
rugs." 

"Is  it  fancy  dress?"  Vawdrey  asked.  "If  so, 
will  somebody  find  me  a  false  nose  and  an  opera 
hat?" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  hall  was  cleared,  and  Mrs. 
Vawdrey  began  to  play  The  Blue  Danube.  Vaw- 
drey led  off  with  Lady  Benyon,  Drury  following 
with  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing;  while  Sir  Charles,  with 
a  laconic  "Shall  we?"  took  possession  of  Hilda 
Carew.  Eraser  never  danced  if  he  could  avoid  it, 
and  by  tacit  agreement  Ethel  was  left  to  Willie 
Pfeiffer. 

"Our  dance?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"If  you  like,"  she  answered,  with  a  quick  smile. 
"There's  not  much  choice  of  partners,  is  there?" 

"Enough  forme." 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  sat  beside  her  on  the 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

sofa,  while  she  drew  on  her  long  white  gloves. 
Then  they  went  spinning  down  the  hall  together, 
past  the  other  couples  and  back  again,  as  Mrs. 
Vawdrey's  music  quickened  to  a  close.  The  draw- 
ing-room door  was  open,  and  he  guided  her  in, 
threading  a  hazardous  way  between  the  tables  and 
chairs  until  they  reached  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
She  was  breathless  with  the  pace  they  had  made, 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  flushed  face  and 
laughing  eyes.  She  was  irresistibly  lovely,  and  his 
passion  for  her,  which  he  had  been  struggling  to 
keep  in  check  for  months  past,  surged  up  within 
him  and  burst  its  bonds.  He  bent  toward  her  im- 
pulsively, and  caught  her  hands  in  his  as  he 
whispered: 

"Darling." 

The  word  had  been  on  his  lips  so  many  times, 
and  he  had  choked  it  back  because  he  was  poor  and 
in  debt  and  she  was  a  millionairess.  He  knew 
that  he  must  marry  money;  but  this  flirtation  with 
Ethel,  begun  as  a  pastime  which  might  possibly 
lead  to  a  successful  business  arrangement,  had 
deepened  into  love.  The  disparity  of  fortune, 
which  at  first  had  attracted  him  to  her,  now  seemed 
unbearable,  for  he  wanted  to  give  and  not  to  take. 
He  wanted  her  for  herself,  and  not  for  the  money 
she  would  bring. 

The  nearer  he  drew  to  the  attainment  of  his 
hopes  the  more  he  dreaded  the  verdict  of  the  world, 
the  impartial  acceptance  of  him  as  a  clever  fortune- 
hunter  who  had  "pulled  it  off."  Her  parents  would 
[52] 


JEST 

suspect  him,  even  she  herself  could  scarcely  avoid 
doing  so,  and  the  thought  had  restrained  him  again 
and  again  from  asking  her  to  marry  him.  If  only 
he  were  rich!  If  only  even  he  were  free  from  the 
load  of  foolish  debts  which  his  extravagance  had 
put  round  his  neck!  Before  he  married  Ethel, 
Vawdrey  would  have  to  pay  them ;  and  the  thought 
which  a  year  ago  would  have  been  pleasant  enough 
was  now  offensive  to  his  conscience. 

But  the  moment  had  come  when  nothing  could 
avail  to  stem  his  desire.  He  forgot  everything  as 
he  looked  into  her  eyes. 

Her  color  deepened,  but  she  did  not  draw  back. 
She  let  him  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  Then,  without  a 
word,  they  turned  and  went  back  into  the  hall. 

As  they  came  out  of  the  drawing-room  they  met 
Vawdrey  face  to  face,  and  at  the  sight  of  him 
Pfeiffer's  anxieties  returned  upon  him  more  acutely 
than  ever.  If  only,  he  thought,  he  were  free  from 
debts !  Then  he  would  not  mind  so  much. 


[53] 


BOOK  II 
EARNEST 


CHAPTER  I 

TT  was  after  one  o'clock  before  the  dancing  came 
•*-  to  an  end.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  went  to  her 
room  and  began  slowly  to  undress.  She  was  tired 
and  excited  by  the  events  of  the  evening,  and  she 
wished  that  she  had  not  given  Celeste  permission  to 
go  to  bed.  She  put  on  a  kimono,  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire  to  brush  her  hair;  but  her  thoughts  began 
to  wander  and  soon  her  hands  lay  idly  in  her  lap. 
She  was  thinking  about  Arthur  Drury — how  nice 
he  was ;  and,  she  reflected  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure, 
how  devoted. 

He  was  in  love  with  her.  And  in  telling  herself 
this  she  was  careful  to  guard  herself  against  the 
optimism  of  a  woman  no  longer  in  the  flush  of 
youth.  She  knew  she  could  be  attractive  to  any 
man  sensible  enough  to  realize  that  loveliness  has 
its  times  and  seasons.  She  knew  there  were  hours 
when  she  could  hold  her  own  even  against  a 
girl  like  Ethel  Vawdrey;  and,  good  heavens,  how 
much  cleverer  she  was !  Ethel  was  lovely,  but  she 
had  not  yet  shaken  off  the  gaucherie  of  eighteen; 
she  had  not  yet  learnt  that  nature  never  yet  made  a 
woman's  lips  red  enough. 

She  knew  she  could  hold  Arthur  against  any  girl 
in  the  world.  But  would  she  always  hold  him  ?  She 
was  getting  unwisely  fond  of  him,  counting  too 
much  on  his  attention ;  showing,  perhaps  too  openly, 

[57] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

that  she  expected  it.  That  was  dangerous.  Would 
he  "last"  ?  At  forty  would  he  be  content  with  a 
woman  older  than  himself,  who  dare  not  meet  him 
until  she  had  spent  an  hour  in  preparation?  That 
was  the  maddening  quality  of  youth,  that  power  of 
waking  up  lovely.  But  then,  youth  had  no  reti- 
cence, no  reserve  of  charm;  it  was  as  open  as  the 
day,  and — as  lacking  in  surprises. 

She  smiled  as  she  recalled  the  light  which  had 
flashed  into  Arthur's  eyes  when  he  met  her  last 
night  on  the  way  down  to  dinner.  She  was  wear- 
ing a  white  frock  of  daring  simplicity,  and  across 
her  shoulders  Celeste  had  thrown  a  wrap  of  ban- 
danna silk  widely  edged  with  blue.  The  effect  had 
pleased  her,  and  when  she  saw  Arthur's  eyes  her 
pleasure  swelled  into  triumph.  He  had  flushed  up 
as  he  looked  at  her;  and  then,  as  they  went  down 
the  staircase  together,  he  had  lightly  touched  her 
hand.  Oh,  yes;  he  was  in  love  with  her.  And, 
unless  she  was  deceiving  herself,  he  would  propose 
as  soon  as  she  let  him  do  so.  The  question  was, 
should  she  accept  him  ?  Why  not  ?  It  was  a  risk, 
for  there  was  nearly  ten  years  between  them ;  but 
a  woman's  life  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  risks — risk 
of  failure,  of  ill-health,  of  swiftly  declining  charm, 
of  defeat.  Was  not  the  happiest  woman  facing 
these  always? 

She  sat,  engrossed  in  her  thoughts,  until  she  was 
roused  by  a  clock  striking  two.  Then,  with  an  at- 
tempt to  put  Arthur  out  of  her  mind,  she  went 
to  bed. 

[58] 


EARNEST 

She  dozed  off ;  but  her  sleep  was  light,  and  was 
broken  by  scraps  of  vivid  dreaming,  in  which 
Arthur,  and  the  necklace,  and  masked  burglars 
played  disjointed  parts.  Several  times  she  woke, 
only  to  fall  again  immediately  into  the  state  of 
semi-consciousness  which  is  the  battleground  be- 
tween an  overtired  body  and  the  deep  sleep  for 
which  it  craves.  Once  she  thought  some  one  was 
in  her  room ;  she  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  the 
click  of  a  door.  She  turned  on  her  back  and 
listened,  but  there  was  not  a  sound;  and  she  told 
herself  that  it  must  have  been  part  of  a  dream. 

She  drew  the  bed-clothes  closer  about  her  and 
fell  asleep — more  soundly  now,  for  her  mind  was 
rested,  and  was  able  to  yield  itself  to  nature's  de- 
mands'. For  some  hours  she  lay  in  complete  uncon- 
sciousness. Then  she  awoke  refreshed.  The  cur- 
tains were  closely  drawn  and  the  room  was  dark; 
but  the  fire  had  gone  out,  and  she  guessed  it  must 
be  nearly  time  for  Celeste  to  come.  She  pressed 
the  knob  of  a  repeater  which  stood  by  her  bedside 
and  was  disappointed  to  find  that  it  was  not  yet 
six  o'clock. 

She  lay  back  again  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep ;  but 
she  could  not  keep  her  eyes  closed.  The  absolute 
stillness  of  the  house  began  to  get  on  her  nerves. 
For  a  few  minutes  she  tossed  and  turned,  shaking 
up  her  pillows  and  changing  her  position.  At  last,, 
certain  that  her  efforts  were  useless,  she  got  up. 
She  would  draw  the  curtains  and  read  until  Celeste 
brought  the  early  tea. 

[59] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

She  felt  her  way  cautiously  across  the  room  to 
the  windows.  She  pulled  back  the  curtains  and 
drew  up  the  blinds,  letting  in  a  flood  of  daylight. 
One  window  was  open  at  the  top,  but  the  room  felt 
close  and  stuffy,  and  she  raised  the  bottom  sash, 
pushing  it  up  as  high  as  she  could.  The  effort  tired 
her,  and  for  a  few  minutes  she  sat  down  on  the 
broad  window-seat,  breathing  in  the  delicious  air, 
which  was  as  crisp  and  cool  as  a  glass  of  spring 
water.  Then,  feeling  chilly,  she  looked  round  for 
the  book  she  wanted  before  going  back  to  bed. 

The  dressing-table  stood  across  the  corner  near 
the  right-hand  window,  slanted  toward  the  wall  so 
as  to  catch  the  light  upon  the  glass.  As  she  turned 
her  eyes  fell  on  it;  and,  indefinitely  for  the  first 
moment,  she  missed  something  which  ought  to  have 
been  there. 

"My  necklace!" 

She  took  a  hasty  step  forward.  The  little  jewel- 
case,  which  stood  on  the  right-hand  shelf  beside  the 
glass,  was  gone.  Quickly  she  looked  round — on 
the  table  and  the  other  shelves,  in  the  little  drawers, 
then  about  the  room. 

"But  I  put  it  there  last  night,"  she  said,  looking 
again  at  the  empty  shelf.  "I'm  sure  I  put  it  there." 
She  stood  thinking,  hurriedly,  excitedly. 

"I  know  I  put  it  there,"  she  said,  "but  where 
is  it?" 

She  began  carefully  to  search  every  table  and 
shelf  and  cupboard,  spurring  herself  to  recall  that 
she  had  put  it  "somewhere  safe"  when  she  took  it 
[60] 


EARNEST 

off  last  night.  She  remembered  unfastening  it  and 
laying  it  in  its  case ;  and  the  more  she  thought  the 
more  certain  she  was  that  she  had  put  the  case  on 
the  top  right-hand  shelf  of  the  dressing-table  as 
usual. 

And  it  had  disappeared. 

After  a  fruitless  ten  minutes  she  stopped  and 
stood  thinking.  Then  a  rather  angry  smile  crossed 
her  face  as  a  possible  explanation  of  the  mystery 
occurred  to  her. 

"I  suppose  it's  another  joke,"  she  said.  "I'm 
rather  tired  of  Willie  Pfeiffer's  jokes.  I  think  I'll 
lose  my  temper  this  time." 

Her  mind  was  set  at  rest.  She  moved  a  step 
forward,  meaning  to  get  into  bed  and  read.  Then 
a  sudden  thought  stopped  her.  She  always  slept 
with  her  door  bolted,  and  from  where  she  stood  she 
could  see  that  it  was  bolted  now. 

Again  she  searched  every  corner  of  the  room, 
ransacked  every  drawer;  following,  even,  Willie 
Pfeiffer's  example  of  the  night  before  in  looking 
under  the  bed.  It  was  gone,  spirited  away  through 
a  bolted  door.  If  Celeste  had  been  with  her — but 
she  always  trusted  her  absolutely;  and,  besides, 
she  had  not  been  with  her. 

She  gazed  round  the  walls,  searching  for  any 
clue  which  might  guide  her.  She  knew  that  neck- 
laces, however  valuable,  did  not  vanish  through 
solid  walls  and  ceilings  at  the  bidding  of  either  a 
practical  joker  or  a  professional  burglar;  and  she 
could  not  help  imagining  that  she  must  have  put 
[61] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

it  in  some  place  which  she  could  not  now  remember. 
And  yet,  how  absurd  such  an  idea  was. 

"It  must  have  been  stolen,"  she  said  at  length. 
"But  how?  I  thought  I  heard  a  door  close." 

In  her  agitation  she  had  overlooked  the  inner 
door  which  led  into  Pfeiffer's  room  and  was  covered 
by  a  curtain.  It  caught  her  attention  now,  and  she 
went  toward  it  and  lifted  the  curtain.  The  bolt 
on  her  side  was  unfastened. 

"Then  it  was  a  joke !" 

Relieved  at  knowing  that  her  necklace  was  safe 
she  became  extremely  angry  with  Willie  Pfeiffer. 
To  use  the  door  between  her  room  and  his,  and  to 
come  into  her  room  at  night — it  was  outrageous, 
compromising,  odious.  What  would  everybody 
think?  Why,  naturally,  that  he  had  come  that  way 
before !  What  would — what  would  Arthur  think? 
Oh,  it  was  hateful! 

She  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown  and  sat  down  at 
the  writing-table.  Snatching  up  a  pen,  she  began 
to  write  rapidly : 

DEAR  MR.  PFEIFFER: 

"I  am  afraid  your  sense  of  humor  is 
rather  beyond  what  I  am  accustomed  to, 
and  though  I  never  wish  to  spoil  sport,  I 
must  ask  you  to  leave  me  out  of  any  future 
plans  you  may  devise. 

"Will  you  kindly  return  my  necklace  by 
my  maid,  who  will  deliver  this  note?    And 
will    you    refrain    from    mentioning    your 
cleverness  to  any  one  at  all  ? 
[62] 


EARNEST 

"If  you  do  not  see  your  way  to  do  this  I 
shall  have  to  take  the  matter  more  seriously 
— so  seriously  that  you  will  find  it  desirable 
to  leave  the  house. 

"Yours  truly, 
"M.  DAYRELL-WING." 

She  put  the  letter  into  an  envelope  and  addressed 
it  to  Pfeiffer.  Then  she  got  into  bed  again  and 
tried  to  concentrate  her  attention  upon  her  book. 

At  eight  o'clock  Celeste  knocked  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  slipped  out  of  bed  and  drew 
back  the  bolt,  calling:  "Come  in."  Then,  as 
Celeste  put  the  tea-tray  by  the  bedside,  she  held  out 
the  letter,  saying:  "Take  this  to  Mr.  Pfeiffer's 
room,  please.  Knock,  and  give  it  him  yourself,  and 
wait  there  for  an  answer.  Don't  send  one  of  the 
men — you  understand?" 

"Oui,  madame." 

She  heard  Celeste  knock  on  Pfeiffer's  door  once, 
and  then  again  more  slowly.  Then  a  sleepy  voice 
called  out: 

"What  is  it?" 

Celeste  explained  that  there  was  a  letter  awaiting 
reply,  and  after  a  moment  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
heard  him  go  to  the  door.  He  closed  it  again,  and 
a  long  silence  followed.  A  feeling  of  panic  began 
to  take  possession  of  her.  What  was  he  doing? 
Why  did  he  not  give  Celeste  the  jewel-case?  What 
could  he  be  thinking  about?  Was  it  possible  that 
he  meant  to  carry  the  joke  further?  It  was  mon- 
strous. Her  reputation ! 

[63] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

She  flushed  up  hotly,  and  her  anger  rose  higher. 
She  would  not  suffer  it;  she  would  go  at  once  to 
Mr.  Vawdrey  and  have  Pfeiffer  turned  out  of  the 
house.  Not  that  that  would  help  her  with  Arthur, 
for  nothing  could  do  that.  Whatever  she  said  or 
did,  he  would  never  believe  that  Pfeiffer  had  been 
in  her  room  uninvited.  Joke  or  no  joke,  he  would 
suspect  her,  and  he  would  quietly  draw  away 
from  her. 

"And  I  do  care  for  him,"  she  cried,  suddenly 
bursting  into  tears. 

Her  vain  little  life,  so  gay  until  a  few  hours  ago, 
seemed  on  the  point  of  ruin  at  the  hands  of  a  clumsy 
jester  trying  to  raise  a  laugh.  It  was  cruel. 

Unable  to  bear  the  suspense  longer  she  opened 
the  door  an  inch  and  called  softly : 

"Celeste." 

"Madame?" 

"Where  is  the  answer  to  my  note?" 

"Monsieur  Pfeiffer  told  me  to  wait.  I  am  wait- 
ing, madame." 

"Knock  again  and  say  you  must  have  it  at  once. 
And  then  come  in  to  me." 

She  closed  the  door  and  listened.  Should  she 
speak  to  Pfeiffer  through  the  door  which  separated 
their  rooms?  No,  it  would  only  compromise  her 
further. 

In  a  moment  she  heard  Pfeiffer  respond  to 
Celeste's  knocking,  and  immediately  afterwards 
Celeste  brought  her  a  letter. 

[64] 


EARNEST 

"Where  is  the  necklace?"  rose  to  her  lips,  but 
she  checked  herself  and  tore  open  the  envelope. 

"DEAR  MRS.  DAYRELL-WING: 

"If  this  is  a  return  joke  I  am  afraid  it  is  I 
who  am  dense.  The  last  I  saw  of  your 
necklace  was  when  you  were  wearing  it  last 
night.  If,  as  you  seem  to  imply,  it  has  dis- 
appeared, I  cannot  imagine  who  has  taken 
it.  Yours  sincerely, 

"W.  P." 

She  glanced  through  the  letter  and  threw  it  on 
the  table.  For  some  time  she  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window,  her  eyes  full  of  wild  anxiety.  She  did 
not  know  whether  to  believe  Pfeiffer  or  not.  At 
last  she  took  up  a  pen  and  wrote : 

"It  has  disappeared.  Joking  apart,  and 
on  your  honor,  do  you  know  anything  about 
it  ?  For  heaven's  sake  tell  me.  Say  yes  or 
no  to  Celeste. 

"M.  D.-W." 

"Take  this  to  Mr.  Pfeiffer,"  she  said,  "and  he 
will  give  you  a  message  for  me.  Come  back  at 
once,  and  do  not  speak  to  any  of  the  servants  if 
you  see  them." 

Celeste,   aflame  with  curiosity,  left  the  room. 
She  returned  almost  immediately,  saying : 
"Monsieur  says  no." 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  first  feeling  was  one  of 
relief,  for  there  was  no  longer  question  of  her  repu- 
tation being  damaged  by  Pfeiffer's  thoughtlessness 

[65] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

or  malice.  That  would  have  been  far  more  serious 
than  the  loss  of  the  necklace.  It  was  certain  now 
that  her  diamonds  had  been  stolen,  but  how  it  had 
been  done  she  could  not  imagine.  She  stood  tap- 
ping the  table  with  her  fingers,  her  forehead  drawn 
into  lines  of  perplexity,  until  Celeste's  curiosity 
overcame  her  discretion. 

"Madame  is  disturbed?"  she  asked,  wondering 
what  could  have  passed  between  Pfeiffer  and  her 
mistress.  In  the  gossip  of  the  servants'  hall  their 
names  had  never  been  coupled ;  and,  indeed,  it  was 
well  known  that  he  was  aiming  higher,  and  that 
she  was  giving  favorable  consideration  to  Arthur 
Drury. 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  turned  and  looked  at  her, 
saying:  "Celeste,  my  necklace  has  been  stolen." 

"Madame!"  Celeste  screamed,  running  to  the 
dressing-table  and  searching  it  hurriedly. 

"Yes;  I've  looked  there  and  everywhere.  It's 
gone." 

"But  madame  was  wearing  it  last  night.  There 
has  been  no  one  here?"  she  asked  in  a  tone  of 
doubtful  inquiry. 

"Of  course  there's  been  no  one  here,"  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  answered  sharply. 

"But  madame  remembers  putting  it  away  after 
the  dancing?" 

"Yes.     I  remember  it  perfectly.     And  when  I 

woke  this  morning  and  drew  back  the  curtains  it 

was  gone.    I  thought  it  must  be  another  joke.    The 

note  you  took  to  Mr.  Pfeiffer  was  to  ask  him  if, 

[66] 


EARNEST 

by  some  means — I  can't  think  how — they  had 
hidden  it  again,  as  they  did  yesterday.  He  says 
he  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"Then  it  is  stolen  !  Some  one  must  have  entered 
madame's  room?" 

"I  suppose  so.  But  how  did  they  get  in?  The 
door  was  bolted." 

"The  window — through  the  garden." 

Celeste,  in  a  whirl  of  agitation,  rushed  to  the 
window  and  looked  out,  as  if  she  thought  the  bur- 
glar might  still  be  in  sight. 

"That  one  was  shut.  The  other  one  was  only 
open  a  small  piece  at  the  top  and  the  blinds  were 
down,  so  I  don't  see  how  any  one  could  have  got 
in  that  way." 

"Then ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  cried 
impatiently.  "What's  the  use  of  asking  questions 
when  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing?" 

"Pardon,  madame,  but 

"Yes,  yes.  I  must  think  what  to  do.  If  I  let 
you  go  can  I  trust  you  to  say  nothing  downstairs?" 

"Ye-es,  madame,"  Celeste  answered  reluctantly. 

"Then  take  care  you  don't.  And  come  back  and 
dress  me  in  half  an  hour." 

Left  alone,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  sat  down  on  the 
window-seat  and  went  again  over  every  point  in 
the  story  which  she  would  have  to  tell.  Satisfied 
with  that,  she  considered  what  she  had  better  do. 
She  was  not  an  exact  thinker,  and,  naturally,  she 
had  had  no  training  in  detective  methods;  so, 
[67] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

being  satisfied  that  Pfeiffer  was  not  hoaxing  her, 
she  made  no  serious  attempt  to  guess  how  the  neck- 
lace could  have  disappeared.  Instead,  her  atten- 
tion was  directed  to  the  most  tactful  way  of  deal- 
ing with  an  awkward  situation;  for  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  stayed  with  the  Vawdreys,  and  she 
realized  that  it  was  anything  but  pleasant  for  them 
that  such  a  thing  should  happen  to  her  while  she 
was  in  their  house. 

By  the  time  Celeste  returned  her  mind  was  made 
up,  and  she  had  written  a  note  to  Mrs.  Vawdrey, 
asking  her  to  come  to  her  room  as  soon  as  possible. 
Celeste  delivered  it,  and  brought  back  the  answer' 
that  Mrs.  Vawdrey  would  be  with  her  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 


[68] 


CHAPTER  II 

T  TNLIKE  her  husband,  Mrs.  Vawdrey  had  not 
^  succeeded  in  retaining  her  youthfulness  be- 
yond its  normal  period.  It  requires  a  masculine 
force  of  character  to  do  so  without  taking  thought, 
and  a  woman  seldom  remains  young  unless  she 
makes  an  effort,  or,  more  generally,  a  perpetual 
series  of  efforts.  A  man  may  be  a  boy  at  heart 
when  he  is  seventy;  but  a  girl's  heart  ages  with  her 
face,  and  it  is  rare  to  find  a  woman  of  fifty  who  is 
young  without  preserving  a  youthful  appearance. 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  was  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
to  be  attracted  by  hair-dye  and  uncomfortable 
corsets,  and  having  married  Tom  Vawdrey  she 
straightway  declined  upon  an  easy  existence  with 
great  good  humor.  Before  she  had  reached  forty 
she  was  spoken  of  as  motherly.  Her  hair  was  now 
gray,  and  she  wore  it  parted  in  the  middle  and 
brushed  smoothly  over  her  large  head.  Her  kindly 
eyes  looked  out  from  a  ruddy  face,  and  she  was 
growing  extremely  stout.  She  usually  dressed  in 
rich  black  or  brown  materials,  relieved  by  priceless 
Irish  lace,  of  which  she  had  a  large  collection.  Her 
skirts  followed  no  change  of  fashion :  they  were 
always  short  enough  in  front  to  show  her  feet  in 
broad  kid  shoes,  and  they  always  trailed  on  the 
ground  behind  with  a  satisfactory  noise  of  silk. 

[69] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Her  dressmaker  had  been  the  favorite  modiste  of 
Queen  Victoria. 

"I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  wants?" 
she  said  to  her  husband.  "She  asks  me  to  go  to 
her  room  at  once." 

"She's  ill,  I  should  think.  Hope  it's  nothing 
serious." 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  hurriedly  finished  dressing  and 
went  to  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  called,  knocking  on  the 
door. 

"Is  that  Mrs.  Vawdrey?    Oh,  please  do." 

"I  hope  you're  not  ill,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  said,  as 
she  entered. 

"No,  not  ill,  thanks.  But  I'm  in  such  dreadful 
trouble,  and  I  thought  it  better  to  ask  you  to  come 
here." 

"Why,  what  is  it?"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  asked,  as 
near  to  alarm  as  her  comfortable  existence  ever 
allowed  her  to  be. 

"My  necklace — it's  been  stolen." 

"Stolen?  And  how  can  that  be?  You  were 
wearing  it  last  night." 

"I  know  I  was.  And  I  put  it  away  myself.  I 
woke  about  six  and  got  up  to  draw  the  curtains, 
and  when  I  looked  on  the  dressing-table  it  wasn't 
there." 

"But  are  you  sure?  No  one  could  have  got  in 
while  you  were  here;  you'd  have  heard  them." 

"Well,  some  one  did.  I  was  disturbed  in  the 
night.  I  thought  I  heard  a  door  closing,  and  then, 

[70] 


EARNEST 

when  I  listened,  it  was  all  quiet,  so  I  went  to  sleep 
again." 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  looked  anxious.  It  was  most 
disagreeable  for  people  to  lose  things  when  they 
were  staying  with  you.  She  believed  the  servants 
to  be  honest,  but  one  could  never  be  certain,  espe- 
cially when  other  people's  servants  were  there  as 
well. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "It's  really  dreadful. 
Do  you  suspect  any  one — your  maid?" 

"No.  I  had  sent  her  to  bed  and  I  undressed 
myself." 

"Well,  I  must  tell  my  husband  at  once.  He  will 
know  what  is  best  to  be  done.  Will  you  wait  here? 
I  will  come  back." 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  hastened  away.  She  was  unac- 
customed to  emergencies,  for  Tom  Vawdrey  always 
knew  how  to  do  the  right  thing  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, and  she  always  left  it  to  him  to  do. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  halting  at  the  door  of  his 
dressing-room,  "a  terrible  thing  has  happened! 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  necklace  has  been  stolen." 

Vawdrey  stopped  shaving  and  turned  to  her. 

"Stolen?     Nonsense!     When?" 

"After  she  took  it  off  last  night." 

"But  where  was  it?  Doesn't  she  keep  it  in  her 
room  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  just  it.  She  knows  it  was  there 
when  she  went  to  bed,  and  when  she  woke  at  six 
it  was  gone." 

"That's  a  pretty  tall  story." 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

He  rubbed  his  chin  reflectively  and  looked  at 
his  wife. 

"Well,  dear,  that's  what  she  says.  I  think  you'd 
better  come  and  talk  to  her." 

"Yes,  let's  go  together.    I'm  just  ready." 

He  put  away  the  razor  and  finished  dressing. 
Then  he  followed  his  wife  to  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
room.  His  idea  was  that  some  "fooling"  lay  at 
the  bottom  of  the  matter,  either  a  repetition  of  last 
night's  hoax  or  a  retort  to  it. 

"Probably,"  he  thought,  "she  has  hidden  it  and 
will  accuse  Pfeiffer  of  carrying  it  off,  in  order  to 
get  even  with  him.  It's  a  wretched  attempt  at  a 
joke." 

But  when  he  saw  the  anxious  expression  of  her 
face,  and  her  evidently  genuine  distress,  he  was 
obliged  to  let  this  theory  go. 

"You  say,"  he  said,  when  he  had  listened  to  her 
story,  "that  you  know  you  put  it  away  last  night?" 

"Yes,  and  it  was  gone  this  morning." 

"Did  you  leave  the  room  after  you  took  it  off?" 

"No." 

"And  the  windows — were  they  open  ?" 

"One  was  open  at  the  top.  And  the  blinds  were 
both  down  and  the  curtains  drawn." 

"Was  your  door  bolted?" 

"The  outer  door  was.  And  I  thought  the  inner 
one  was,  but  when  I  looked  this  morning  I  found  it 
wasn't.  So,  of  course,  I  thought  it  was  another  of 
Mr.  Pfeiffer's  jokes." 

"It  probably  is." 

[72] 


EARNEST 

"No.    I  asked  him." 

"Well,  /'//  ask  him." 

He  went  into  the  passage  and  rapped  on 
Pfeiffer's  door. 

"May  I  come  in?    It's  me — Vawdrey." 

"Oh,  come  in.  Excuse  my  get-up;  I'm  just 
shaving.  What's  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  up  to  with 
her  necklace?  She's  accused  me  of  hiding  it  again/' 

"Well,  haven't  you?" 

"No." 

"Honor  bright — no  fooling?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Then  it's  beginning  to  look  awkward.  Some- 
body's got  it.  The  poor  little  lady's  nearly  off  her 
head." 

"By  Jove!    Burglars?" 

"Seems  so.  It's  altogether  mysterious.  She  says 
her  door  was  bolted  and  the  window  only  open  at 
the  top,  but  the  door  into  this  room  is  unbolted." 

"It's  bolted  on  this  side,"  Pfeiffer  said,  looking 
at  it. 

"But  not  on  hers.  For  the  moment  it  looks  as 
if  the  thief  had  come  through  your  room.  Were 
you  disturbed  at  all?" 

"No.  I  slept  right  through  until  the  maid 
knocked  me  up  this  morning  with  her  note." 

"You're  a  pretty  good  sleeper,  of  course,"  Vaw- 
drey said,  with  a  brief  smile. 

"Yes,  I  daresay  some  one  could  have  come  in 
without  waking  me.  But  how  did  he  get  in  ?  My 
door  was  bolted." 

[73] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Was  it?    Sure?" 

"Certain.  I  remember  unfastening  it  to  take  in 
the  note." 

"There's  the  window." 

"Yes,  that's  a  possibility  with  a  ladder." 

"H'm.  Let's  make  sure  no  one's  hiding  here 
now." 

They  searched  the  room  thoroughly,  but  found 
nothing;  and,  after  a  pause,  Vawdrey  returned  to 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing. 

"No.    That's  all  right,"  he  said. 

He  stood  looking  about  him,  wondering  what 
was  the  best  course  to  pursue.  His  wife  and  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  waited  for  his  decision.  He  guessed 
that  in  some  material  particular  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  memory  must  be  inaccurate :  either  she  had 
left  her  room  after  taking  off  the  necklace  or  she 
had  not  put  it  away.  The  latter  possibility  gave 
him  an  idea. 

"You  must  have  dropped  it  last  night  when  you 
were  dancing,"  he  said  with  conviction.  "We'll 
have  a  search  made  downstairs." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  answered  doubtfully.  "I 
so  clearly  remember  taking  it  off." 

"Oh,  memories  often  play  tricks.  I'm  sure  that's 
it.  Come  along  to  breakfast  and  I'll  tell  Gibson 
to  hunt  for  it." 

He  held  open  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing, 
somewhat  comforted  by  his  assurance,  was  going 
out  when  Mrs.  Vawdrey  said: 

"But  the  case ?" 

[74] 


EARNEST 

"Oh,  by  Jove !"  Vawdrey  exclaimed.  His 
wife's  question  broke  his  pleasant  theory  in  pieces. 

"Yes,  you  weren't  wearing  the  case,  were  you!" 
he  added. 

"No,  and  I  know  I  put  it  in  when  I  undressed," 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  cried,  turning  back  again.  Her 
anxiety  returned  upon  her  all  the  more  heavily  for 
the  brief  respite. 

"That  cock  won't  fight,  then,"  Vawdrey  said. 
"  'Pon  my  soul,  it's  a  puzzler,  isn't  it?" 

"We  must  send  for  the  police,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey 
said,  ready  to  accept  the  inevitable  without  further 
effort. 

"I  suppose  we  must.  Though  I  can't  help  think- 
ing it  will  turn  up." 

"But  how  can  it?"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  de- 
manded, growing  exasperated  at  his  slowness. 
"The  police  ought  to  come  at  once;  every  moment 
is  important." 

"Yes,  you're  quite  right,"  Vawdrey  at  length 
agreed,  not  seeing  what  else  could  be  done.  "But 
the  village  constable's  no  use.  I'll  send  the  motor, 
and  telegraph  to  Edinburgh  for  a  detective.  He'll 
be  here  by  lunch-time." 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  be  such  a  trouble;  but  it  is 
urgent,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course  it  is.  All  I  wanted  was  to  make  sure 
that  it  really  had  been  stolen.  Now,  with  your 
permission,  I'll  just  search  this  room  thoroughly 
and  lock  it  up.  I'll  lock  up  Pfeiffer's,  too,  so  that 
the  servants  sha'n't  come  in  and  destroy  any  pos- 

[75] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

sible  traces.  Can  you  manage  without  coming  in 
here  again  during  the  morning?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"You  take  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  down  to  break- 
fast, my  dear,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "I'll  make 
arrangements." 

The  two  ladies  went  downstairs.  Vawdrey  went 
to  Pfeiffer's  room,  and,  finding  him  gone,  locked 
the  door  and  took  away  the  key.  Then  he  went 
back  to  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room  and  searched 
it.  When  he  had  finished  he  rang  the  bell.  One  of 
the  housemaids  came,  and  he  sent  her  to  fetch  Gib- 
son, who  presently  appeared,  walking  with  the 
leisured  dignity  of  an  archbishop.  He  had  heard 
that  a  burglary  had  taken  place,  for  Mademoiselle 
Celeste  was  more  voluble  than  discreet;  but  he  was 
neither  excited  nor  hurried  by  the  news. 

"Oh,  look  here,  Gibson,"  Vawdrey  said.  "I 
suppose  you've  heard  what's  happened?" 

"I  did  hear,  sir,"  Gibson  answered,  with  a  proper 
disinclination  to  admit  the  knowledge  of  facts 
which  had  not  been  officially  communicated  to  him. 
"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  maid  is  taken  'ysterical,  sir, 
being  foreign." 

"Yes,  and  the  necklace  is  taken  hysterical,  too. 
I'm  blessed  if  I  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"No,  sir.    Mysterious,  it  looks  like." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  sending  for  a  detective,  and  I'm 
locking  up  these  two  rooms  till  he  comes.  Just  sit 
here  in  the  passage  and  see  that  no  one  tries  to  get 
in.  Mind,  I  don't  suspect  any  one  in  the  house  for 

[76] 


EARNEST 

a  moment;  but  I  want  to  make  sure  that  the  rooms 
remain  untouched." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Vawdrey  went  to  his  study  to  write  a  telegram, 
and  then  to  the  stables  to  find  the  chauffeur  and 
send  him  off  at  once.  On  his  way  out  he  met 
Arthur  Drury,  coming  down  late  for  breakfast. 

"Morning,  Arthur,"  he  said. 

"Good  morning.  You've  finished  breakfast  very 
early." 

"I  haven't  had  any  yet,  worse  luck.  You've  not 
heard  the  news?" 

"No.     What  news?" 

"It's  pretty  serious.  Mrs.  Dayrell- Wing's  neck- 
lace has  been  stolen." 

"Good  heavens!"  Drury  cried,  turning  white. 
"Stolen?  \Vhen?" 

"Last  night." 

Drury  stammered  and  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
speak. 

"B-but " 

Then  he  added  quickly :  "You  know  my  firm  has 
insured  it.  It'll  be  an  awful  facer." 

"But  you  said  the  risk  was  spread  about;  it 
doesn't  all  fall  on  you?" 

"No,  but  they'll  be  wild.  They  didn't  much 
want  to  take  it  on  only  I  pressed  it.  Look  here,  I 
must  wire  to  London  at  once;  it's  serious." 

"All  right.  The  car's  going  in  two  minutes. 
I'm  sending  for  a  detective  from  Edinburgh.  Run 
into  my  study  and  write  your  message." 

[77] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"I  think  I'll  go  down  and  wire  from  the  tele- 
graph office.  Then  I  shall  get  an  answer  quicker. 
Just  let  me  get  a  coat." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that.  You'd  better  have  break- 
fast. The  chauffeur  can  wait  and  bring  the 
answer." 

"No,  no.    I  couldn't  eat  anything." 

He  rushed  off  to  fetch  his  coat  and  rejoined 
Vawdrey  in  the  stable-yard.  In  a  few  moments  the 
car  had  started  and  was  running  on  top  speed 
through  the  park  on  its  way  to  Stilkirk,  eight  miles 
away.  Vawdrey  had  instructed  the  chauffeur  to 
wait  at  the  telegraph  office  for  a  reply.  Then  he 
was  to  go  on  to  Montrose  to  meet  the  express  from 
Edinburgh  and  bring  back  the  detective. 

Both  in  the  dining-room  and  in  the  servants' 
hall  breakfast  was  more  than  usually  interrupted 
by  eager  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing, 
like  Mademoiselle  Celeste,  was  "taken  hysterical." 
The  loss  of  the  necklace  did  not  weigh  too  heavily 
on  her  mind,  for  that  was  to  fall  on  other  people, 
of  whom,  unfortunately,  Arthur  Drury  was  one. 
But  the  thought  of  a  burglar  in  her  room,  and  of 
what  her  fate  might  have  been  if  she  had  awakened 
and  cried  out,  unnerved  her  completely.  The  dan- 
ger from  which  she  had  escaped  loomed  terrifically 
large,  and  the  conversation  round  the  table  mag- 
nified it  and  brought  it  more  vividly  before  her. 

"He'd  have  sandbagged  you,"  Sir  Charles  said 
with  conviction.  "They  always  do." 

[78] 


EARNEST 

The  picture  brought  tears  of  abject  fright  to 
her  eyes. 

"Well,  anyway  you  didn't  wake,"  Hilda  Carew 
said,  attempting  to  encourage  her. 

"No;  I  wish  I  had  for  some  things,"  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Ring  moaned.  "Then  I  should  at  least 
know  who  the  thief  was." 

"It  really  is  too  horrible,"  Ethel  cried.  "I  shall 
be  frightened  to  death  at  sleeping  alone  here  now. 
I  suppose  it  isn't  a  joke,  Mr.  Pfeiffer?"  she  added, 
turning  to  him. 

"Upon  my  soul,  no,"  Pfeiffer  answered  earnestly. 
"I  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  it  till  I  heard 
this  morning." 

Neither  Pfeiffer  nor  Leslie  Fraser  had  taken 
much  part  in  the  conversation.  They  seemed  to 
feel  that,  in  a  measure,  they  might  be  thought  re- 
sponsible for  what  had  happened,  inasmuch  as  the 
joke  of  the  previous  evening  had  possibly  suggested 
the  idea  of  the  robbery.  Evidently,  it  had  been 
committed  by  some  one  familiar  with  the  house, 
and  the  opinion  was  general  that,  whoever  the  thief 
was,  one  of  the  servants  had  had  a  hand  in  it. 
Mrs.  Vawdrey  frankly  declared  for  the  second 
footman,  on  no  stronger  grounds  than  because  he 
had  a  shifty  eye.  Lady  Benyon,  on  the  contrary, 
thought  it  must  be  Celeste,  because  she  had  once 
had  a  French  maid  who  stole  a  brooch. 

Breakfast  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  the  sus- 
pected footman  brought  a  message  from  Gibson 
that  he  wished  to  speak  to  Mr.  Vawdrey. 

[79] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Has  he  found  anything?"  Vawdrey  asked. 

He  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  the  others  streamed 
after  him  up  the  stairs.  Gibson  was  standing  by 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room. 

"I  found  this  just  here,  under  the  mat,  sir,"  he 
said,  holding  out  the  small  flat  jewel-case  in  which 
the  necklace  was  kept. 

It  was  empty. 


[80] 


BOOK  III 
WHAT  JAMES  McVlTIE  DISCOVERED 


CHAPTER  I 

r  I  AHE  car  returned  to  Gains  about  two  o'clock, 
*-  bringing  the  detective  and  his  assistant,  who 
had  caught  the  morning  train  from  Edinburgh. 
Arthur  Drury  was  not  with  them.  He  had  sent  a 
note  by  the  chauffeur,  saying  that  he  had  got 
through  to  London  on  the  telephone,  and  had  de- 
cided to  go  up  by  the  afternoon  express  to  consult 
with  his  firm. 

The  detective,  James  McVitie,  was  an  able  man 
of  the  official  type,  with  a  great  experience  of 
criminal  investigation.  His  appearance  gave  no 
indication  either  of  his  profession  or  of  his  standing 
in  it,  for  he  was  utterly  unlike  the  keen-eyed, 
hatchet-faced  men  who,  in  fiction,  are  called  in  to 
unravel  a  mystery.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  and  had 
red  hair,  and  a  moustache  flecked  with  gray.  His 
complexion  was  leathery  and  of  a  uniform  brownish 
color,  and  the  skin  hung  in  loose  folds  over  the 
high  cheek-bones  and  the  strongly  moulded  jaw. 
His  pale  blue  eyes  were  rather  narrow  and  almost 
devoid  of  lashes.  They  lacked  expression,  and, 
either  from  practice  or  naturally,  they  seldom  re- 
flected the  thoughts  which  were  passing  in  his  mind. 
He  spoke  slowly,  with  a  slight  Scotch  accent,  and 
he  was  as  economical  with  words  as  the  proverbial 
Scotchman  is  with  money.  He  seemed  to  grudge 
each  one  as  it  fell  from  his  lips.  He  was  dressed 

[83] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

in  a  suit  of  dark  tweed,  a  good  deal  worn,  with  a 
black  overcoat  and  square-shaped  felt  hat.  In  a 
town  he  would  have  passed  for  a  merchant  in  a 
small  way  of  business;  in  the  country  one  might 
have  guessed  him  to  be  a  tax  collector  or  a  traveler 
for  a  small  brewery. 

On  arriving  at  Gains  he  was  shown  into  the 
study;    and  Vawdrey,  who  had  just  sat  down  to 
lunch,  went  in  to  see  him. 
/'Good  morning,"  he  said.  "You  are  Mr. ?" 

"McVitie." 

"Ah!  We've  got  a  tiresome  business  here  for 
you  to  clear  up.". 

"A  robbery." 

"Yes.  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  But,  first  of  all, 
hadn't  you  better  have  lunch?  Will  you  join  us 
or  do  you  prefer  to  be  alone?" 

"I'll  take  it  with  my  assistant,  thank  you." 

"Then  I'll  tell  the  butler  to  bring  you  some  in 
here,  and  I'll  rejoin  you  as  soon  as  we've  finished." 

McVitie  made  no  reply,  and  Vawdrey  went  back 
to  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  assailed  by  eager 
questions  about  the  great  detective. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "he  doesn't  look  like  Sher- 
lock Holmes,  or  Lecoq,  or  any  of  them.  He's  just 
an  uncommonly  ugly  Scotchman  of  the  commercial 
type — the  sort  you  see  on  Glasgow  Central  plat- 
form in  thousands." 

"He  doesn't  sound  very  clever,"  Lady  Benyon 
said. 

"Oh,  detectives  never  are,  except  in  France.    In 
[84] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

this  country  we  have  no  use  for  the  romantic  per- 
son who  invents  the  theory  to  fit  the  crime;  he'd  be 
upsetting  no  end  of  first-class  reputations." 

Fraser  smiled,  saying: 

"Stevenson  has  something  like  that  in  one  of  his 
books.  You  set  a  stone  rolling  from  the  top  of  a 
hill  and  it  knocks  over  some  old  bird  who  is  quietly 
sitting  in  his  back-garden." 

"I  wish  I  knew  the  old  bird  who  had  got  my 
necklace,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  said  energetically. 
"I'd  knock  him  over,  even  if  he  was  a  clergyman." 

"It  couldn't  be  a  clergyman,"  Pfeiffer  answered, 
with  a  flicker  of  reviving  merriment. 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  a  necklace  like  that  is  no  use  unless  you 
wear  a  low  frock.  It  wouldn't  look  at  all  well  on  a 
cassock." 

"How  silly  you  are,"  she  said  pettishly. 

As  soon  as  luncheon  was  over  Vawdrey  went 
back  to  the  study. 

"Now,  Mr.  McVitie,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  ready 
let's  get  to  work.  Shall  I  tell  you  as  much  as  I 
know  or  will  you  see  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  at  once?" 

"You  can  tell  me  what  you  know,"  McVitie  an- 
swered with  cool  indifference,  as  he  signed  to  his 
clerk  to  take  notes. 

Vawdrey  gave  him  the  outlines  of  the  story,  and 
ended  by  mentioning  how  the  empty  box  had  been 
found  by  Gibson  outside  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
door.  McVitie  sat  for  some  minutes  without 
speaking.  At  last  he  said: 

[85] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"You  say  her  door  into  the  passage  was  bolted, 
but  the  door  into  the  next  room  was  unbolted  on 
her  side?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  sleeps  in  the  next  room?" 

"Mr.  Pfeiffer." 

"Have  the  rooms  been  disturbed  since  the  dis- 
covery?" 

"No;  I  locked  them  both  up.    Here's  the  key." 

McVitie  nodded  his  approval.  After  a  further 
pause  he  said: 

"You  will  kindly  give  me  the  names  of  every 
one  who  slept  in  the  house  last  night." 

"There  was  myself  and  my  wife  and  daughter, 
Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Benyon " 

"Of  Anchinsale?" 

"Yes.    MissCarew " 

"Who  is  she?" 

"She's  the  daughter  of  Armand  Carew.  They're 
colonial  merchants  in  a  large  way  of  business  in 
London." 

"Yes.    Go  on,  please." 

"Then — Mr.  Leslie  Eraser.  I  bought  this  place 
from  him  a  few  months  ago.  I  don't  think  he  has 
lived  here  for  some  years." 

"No.  It's  been  let  mostly  for  the  shooting. 
He's  known  by  reputation." 

"And  Mr.  Pfeiffer." 

"German?" 

"Naturalized." 

"What  is  his  business?" 
[86] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"He's  on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  his  means?" 

"Oh,  he  seems  to  spend  about  the  same  as  every 
one  else." 

"Unmarried?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  known  him  long — intimately?" 

"Fairly  so.  He  often  dines  with  us  in  London 
and  one  meets  him  about." 

"Just  a  man  about  town?" 

"Yes;  but  a  very  good  sort,"  Vawdrey  said. 
Then  he  added: 

"Aren't  we  wasting  time  rather?" 

"I  want  to  know  whom  I'm  meeting,"  McVitie 
answered  curtly. 

Vawdrey  was  nettled  by  his  tone,  but  he  was  too 
much  a  man  of  business  to  show  it.  From  what  he 
had  seen  of  him  he  did  not  take  to  McVitie,  and 
was  not  much  impressed  by  his  capability.  He 
struck  him  as  being  rather  stupid  and  rather  rude. 
He  did  not  inspire  confidence  or  give  the  idea  that 
the  frequent  pauses  in  his  conversation  arose  from 
anything  more  than  slowness  of  comprehension. 

"Is  there  any  one  else?"  McVitie  asked. 

"One  other,  Mr.  Arthur  Drury.  He,  as  well  as 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  is  directly  interested  in  the 
matter.  He  is  an  underwriter  at  Lloyds,  and  his 
firm  have  insured  the  necklace." 

"For  its  full  value?" 

"I  believe  so — twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"And  the  lady — what  do  you  know  of  her?" 

[87] 


"Oh — er — she  lives  in  London.  She's  an  Aus- 
tralian, and  came  to  England  after  her  husband 
died." 

"How  long  ago?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly.  I  suppose  we've  known 
her  for  a  couple  of  years." 

"She's  quite  alone  here — no  relations?" 

"I  never  heard  of  any." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  her  means?" 

"Nothing  whatever.  Like  every  one  else,  I 
should  say  she  spent  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"Thank  you.  We  will  go  through  the  servants 
next." 

"I'd  better  get  my  wife  to  help  me  there." 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  came  in  presently,  and  McVitie 
took  the  names  of  the  household  staff,  with  notes  of 
their  length  of  service  and  general  character.  She 
disclosed  to  him  her  supicions  of  the  second  foot- 
man, but  he  seemed  as  little  interested  in  them  as  in 
the  unblemished  record  of  Gibson  and  the  house- 
keeper. He  listened  always  with  an  air  of  cold 
disbelief,  as  if  he  suspected  everybody  of  lying,  or, 
at  the  best,  of  having  nothing  to  say  which  was 
worth  attention. 

When  he  had  made  a  list  of  the  indoor  servants 
he  went  on  to  the  garden  and  stable  staff ;  and  as 
soon  as  this  had  been  completed  he  said  abruptly : 

"I'll  see  the  lady  now.    We  might  go  up  to  her 


room." 


[88] 


CHAPTER  II 

TVTRS.  VAWDREY  went  to  find  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
IV 1  Wing.  When  she  came  McVitie  bowed  awk- 
wardly, looking  her  up  and  down  with  a  perfectly 
expressionless  stare. 

"We'll  go  upstairs,  ma'am,  if  you  please,"  he 
said. 

Vawdrey  led  the  way  and  unlocked  the  door. 
Gibson  was  still  sitting  in  the  passage.  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  entered  the  room  first,  followed  by 
McVitie,  his  assistant,  and  Vawdrey.  McVitie 
glanced  around  the  room.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing, 
high-strung  and  bubbling  with  the  desire  to  tell  her 
story,  began  to  speak  to  him,  but  he  cut  her  short 
with  a  terse:  "Wait,  please."  He  walked  to  the 
windows  and  looked  out;  then  he  opened  the  ward- 
robe as  if,  she  afterward  declared,  he  expected  to 
find  the  thief  still  hiding  there.  Then  he  lifted  the 
curtain  which  covered  the  door  communicating  with 
Pfeiffer's  room,  dropped  it,  and  turned  to  the  dress- 
ing-table. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  larger 
case,  in  which  she  kept  her  miscellaneous  jewelry. 

"That's  my  jewel-case.  The  necklace,  you  know, 
I  kept  in  a  separate  one." 

"The  one  I  showed  you  downstairs,"  Vawdrey 
put  in. 

"Where  was  that  put?" 

[89] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Here,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  top 
shelf  beside  the  glass. 

"Was  it  always  put  there?  Could  any  one  who 
knew  rely  on  finding  it  there?" 

"It  was  always  there.  I've  only  been  in  the 
house  a  week." 

"When  you  came,  did  you  tell  your  maid  to  put 
it  there?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  told  her.  She  put  it  there 
when  she  unpacked,  I  suppose." 

"Why  didn't  you  lock  it  up  and  keep  the  key?" 

"I  never  carry  keys;  they're  so  inconvenient. 
At  home  my  maid  keeps  the  key  of  the  jewel-safe." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  she  added : 

"I  daresay  you  think  that's  very  silly.  But  you 
must  trust  some  one  when  your  dressmaker  refuses 
to  let  you  have  a  pocket." 

A  faint  sarcastic  smile  flickered  across  McVitie's 
leathery  face;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  the  pause 
lengthened. 

Presently  he  began  to  question  her  again. 

"You  wore  the  necklace  last  night?" 

"Yes.  And  when  I  came  up  to  bed  I  remember 
taking  it  off  and  putting  it  in  its  case.  My  maid 
had  a  headache,  and " 

"Wait,  please,"  McVitie  interrupted,  cutting  her 
short  again. 

She  turned  to  Vawdrey  with  a  gesture  of  annoy- 
ance. She  thought  McVitie  the  most  tiresome  man 
she  had  ever  met. 

"Do  you  remember  putting  the  case  on  the 
shelf?"  he  asked. 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"Of  course  I  do.    Where  else  should  I  put  it?" 

"You  might  have  put  it  on  the  table  or  in  a 
drawer." 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  she  snapped. 

"After  putting  it  there  you  went  to  bed  at  once?" 

"Not  at  once.     I  sat  by  the  fire  for  some  time." 

"But  you  did  not  leave  the  room?" 

"No." 

"You  are  sure  you  did  not  leave  the  room?" 

"Positive." 

"And  you  got  up  early  this  morning  and  opened 
the  blinds?  And  then  you  noticed  it  had  gone?" 

"Yes.  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  I  meant  to  read  a 
book  until  I  was  called.  I  had  drawn  back  the 
curtains,  and  as  I  turned  round  I  saw  it  had  gone. 
I  searched  everywhere  for  it " 

"Then  you  weren't  quite  certain  you  had  put  it 
on  the  shelf,"  McVitie  interrupted. 

"Yes,  I  was.     But  I  might  have  been  mistaken." 

"Ah!    We  will  search  again  later." 

"It's  no  use  doing  that.    You  won't  find  it  here." 

McVitie  now  went  to  the  door,  where  he  spent 
some  minutes  in  examining  the  lock. 

"Your  door  was  bolted?"  he  asked,  when  he  had 
finished. 

"Yes." 

"Was  that  unusual?" 

"No;   I  always  bolt  it." 

"You  had  no  special  reason  in  your  mind  last 
night  to  make  you  bolt  it?" 

"No.    Why  should  I?" 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  bolted  it  last  night?" 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Quite.  I  remember  looking;  and,  besides,  I 
had  to  get  up  and  go  to  the  door  when  my  maid 
called  me." 

"Were  the  windows  open?" 

"One  was  open  at  the  top;   the  other  was  shut." 

McVitie  went  to  each  window  in  turn  and  lifted 
the  lower  sash  as  gently  as  he  was  able.  Like  most 
Georgian  windows,  they  were  heavy  and  close- 
fitting,  and  it  was  impossible  to  open  them  without 
a  good  deal  of  noise. 

"Would  you  have  heard  that  if  you  had  been 
asleep?" 

"Certainly  I  should.  I  sleep  very  lightly — in 
fact,  I  often  have  difficulty  in  sleeping  at  all." 

"Do  you  ever  take  anything  for  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Any  medicine?" 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was  furious. 

"If  you're  asking  me  whether  I  take  drugs  I  can 
tell  you  I  don't !"  she  cried  energetically. 

"A  good  many  do,"  he  answered,  with  unruffled 
composure. 

Vawdrey  frowned.  Like  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  he 
thought  McVitie  remarkably  wanting  in  manners. 
It  was  not  what  he  said  which  offended  them,  for 
they  knew  it  was  his  business  to  ask  questions;  it 
was  his  disregard  of  all  those  polite  forms  of  cir- 
cumlocution which  civilized  people  use  as  a  matter 
of  habit. 

McVitie  turned  toward  the  door  which  led  into 
Pfeiffer's  room.  Evidently,  it  was  not  intended  to 

[92] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

be  used,  for  the  curtain  in  front  of  it  was  not  slung 
upon  rings,  but  was  held  up  by  a  light  pole  passed 
through  the  hem  at  the  top.  There  was  a  space 
about  nine  inches  deep  between  the  curtain  and  the 
door,  which  opened  outward  from  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  room,  the  hinges  being  on  the  side  farthest 
from  the  windows. 

He  took  a  tape  measure  from  his  pocket  and 
gave  his  assistant  some  notes.  The  dressing-table 
being  set  at  an  angle  from  the  window,  the  shelf 
where  the  necklace  was  kept  was  within  three  feet 
of  the  curtain. 

"Has  the  table  been  moved?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

He  lifted  the  curtain  and  looked  behind  it. 

"Are  you  nervous  at  night?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"You  don't  generally  look  round  the  room  be- 
fore going  to  bed?" 

"No." 

"Then,  if  any  one  had  been  behind  this  curtain 
when  you  came  up  last  night  you  would  not  have 
found  it  out  ?" 

"No.  I  remember  looking  the  first  night  I  was 
here  to  see  if  the  door  was  bolted." 

"Was  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It  isn't  now." 

"I  know  it  isn't.  I  discovered  that  this 
morning." 

"Have  you  at  any  time  unbolted  it?" 
[93] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"No.    Why  should  I?" 

"You  might  have  wished  to  go  into  the  next 
room." 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  colored  up  hotly,  and  was 
about  to  speak  when  Vawdrey  interposed,  saying: 

"You  forget,  Mr.  McVitie,  the  room  was  not 
empty.  Mr.  Pfeiffer  had  it." 

McVitie  nodded,  but  made  no  remark.  He  was 
perfectly  aware  that  Pfeiffer  had  it. 

Signing  to  his  assistant  to  hold  back  the  curtain 
he  took  out  a  magnifying  glass,  and  carefully  ex- 
amined the  bolt  and  the  woodwork  round  it.  The 
paint  was  fresh  and  there  were  no  marks  upon  it. 
The  bolt  was  a  new  one — a  small  brass  bolt,  care- 
fully fixed,  and  running  easily  in  its  channel. 
Originally,  the  door  seemed  to  have  had  a  mortice 
lock,  with  a  handle  and  keyhole  on  each  side;  but 
this  had  been  removed  and  the  holes  had  been 
plugged.  The  work  did  not  look  recent,  but, 
owing  to  the  paint,  it  was  impossible  to  tell  how 
long  ago  it  had  been  done.  His  glass  travelled 
down  the  sides  of  the  opening,  and,  very  slowly, 
across  the  floor. 

"A  candle,  please,"  he  said. 

He  took  it  out  of  the  candlestick  and  held  it 
close  to  the  floor,  crouching  down  and  peering 
through  his  glass  at  every  inch  of  surface.  At  last 
he  seemed  satisfied  and  rose  from  his  knees,  saying: 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  woman  who  cleans  the 
room." 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

The  order  was  given,  and  when  the  maid  came 
he  asked  her  without  preface : 

"How  often  do  you  sweep  behind  this  curtain?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  she  stammered,  looking 
frightened. 

"Have  you  ever  swept  behind  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  do  it  yesterday?" 

"I  don't  rightly  remember,  sir." 

"Come,  don't  you  remember  lifting  the  curtain 
and  passing  your  brush  round?" 

"Oh,  I  do  remember  it,  sir;  but  I  can't  say  posi- 
tive as  it  was  yesterday  or  the  day  before.  Mrs. 
Pannell's  very  particular  about  the  rooms  being 
kep'  clean,  but  there  isn't  no  dust  here  to  speak 
of — not  like  it  is  in  London." 

McVitie  bore  with  her,  though  the  expression 
on  his  face  indicated  a  desire  to  box  her  ears. 

"When  you  are  cleaning  the  room,"  he  began 
again,  "do  you  ever  open  this  door,  so  as  to  go 
through  from  one  room  to  the  other?" 

"No,  never,  sir.    That  I'm  positive  of." 

"That'll  do,  then." 

The  girl  withdrew,  and  McVitie,  turning  to 
Vawdrey,  said: 

"I'll  not  trouble  you  further  just  now.  I'm  busy 
here  for  a  time.  Later  I'll  see  Mr.  Pfeiffer." 

"Very  well.  Let  me  know  when  you  want  him. 
Shall  we  go  down,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing?  I  expect 
you'd  like  a  cup  of  tea ;  it's  past  four." 

[95] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

When  they  had  gone  McVitie  closed  the  door 
behind  them  and  turned  to  Shaw,  his  assistant. 

"We  needn't  waste  time  here,"  he  said.  "It's 
through  that  door." 

"Have  you  found  anything?"  Shaw  asked. 

"Yes.  Come  here  and  take  these  measurements 
down." 

He  hitched  the  curtain  over  a  chair  and  set  the 
lighted  candle  on  the  floor  again.  Kneeling  down, 
he  began  to  measure  carefully  with  his  tape,  call- 
ing off  the  results.  Shaw  looked  rather  puzzled 
as  he  entered  them  in  his  note-book. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  McVitie?"  he  asked,  when  he 
had  taken  the  last  one. 

"Stoop  down  beside  me  and  you'll  see." 

There  was  a  faint  coating  of  dust  on  the  polished 
floor  behind  the  curtain,  the  accumulation  of  a  day 
or  two.  It  had  been  disturbed,  and  there  were 
irregular,  confused  marks  upon  it.  Toward  the 
left  side  of  the  opening,  some  six  inches  from  the 
face  of  the  door,  and  nearly  parallel  with  it,  was 
the  impress,  blurred  but  unmistakable,  of  a  naked 
foot. 


[96] 


CHAPTER  III 

TV/TcVITIE  and  Shaw  now  went  into  Pfeiffer's 

•*•  room.  This  was  smaller  than  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's,  being  deeper  than  its  width,  and  there  was 
only  one  window.  The  door  was  at  the  left-hand 
corner  of  the  back  wall;  a  washing-stand  was 
next  to  it,  and  beyond  was  the  bed  with  its  head 
toward  the  window.  The  fireplace  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  partition  wall  between  the  two 
rooms;  on  one  side  of  it  was  a  chest  of  drawers, 
and  on  the  other  a  wardrobe,  to  the  right  of  which 
was  the  door  leading  into  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
room.  A  curtain-rod  was  fixed  over  the  door,  but 
there  was  no  curtain. 

This  door  at  once  engaged  McVitie's  attention. 
He  examined  it  carefully  with  his  glass,  but  he 
found  no  trace  of  finger-marks.  It  was  flush  with 
the  wall,  and  the  floor  in  front  of  it,  not  being 
concealed  by  a  curtain,  had  evidently  been  swept 
recently. 

"Nothing  there,"  he  said. 

Shaw,  who  was  his  confidential  assistant,  and 
had  worked  with  him  in  several  difficult  cases,  was 
in  close  touch  with  his  thoughts,  and  was  in  the 
habit  of  discussing  with  him  the  problems  which 
they  had  to  solve. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  Mr.  McVitie?"  he 
asked. 

[97] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"The  thief  came  through  this  room,"  McVitie 
answered  in  his  slow,  colorless  drawl.  "He  may 
have  hid  behind  the  curtain  before  the  lady  went 
to  bed;  but  he  must  have  got  off  this  way,  because 
her  door  into  the  passage  was  found  bolted  inside 
this  morning." 

"One  of  the  servants  was  in  it,  I  suppose." 

"Certain.  I'm  thinking  one  of  the  servants  took 
it.  I  doubt  if  there  was  any  outside  expert  work- 
ing here." 

"But  isn't  it  too  big  a  job  for  a  servant?  It 
wouldn't  be  easy  to  pass  off  a  necklace  like  that." 

"We  can  assume  there's  a  crook  outside  waiting 
for  it.  But  the  actual  theft  seems  to  have  been 
done  from  inside." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?  It'd  be  easy 
enough  for  any  one  to  get  away  once  he  was  out 
of  the  room." 

"True.  But  you're  overlooking  an  important 
point.  We've  proved  that  the  man  who  took  it 
had  no  shoes  or  stockings  on.  You  can  see  the  toe- 
mark  plain.  Now,  an  outsider  would  take  his 
shoes  off,  but  why  should  he  take  his  stockings  off  ?" 

"Why  should  an  insider?" 

"I'd  not  expect  it  of  him,  I  grant;  but  this  man 
did.  He'd  have  partly  undressed  before  coming 
here,  and  in  case  of  alarm  he'd  want  to  be  back  in 
bed  as  quick  as  he  could." 

Shaw  still  looked  unconvinced,  and  after  a 
minute's  reflection  he  said: 

"Isn't  it  a  rather  thin  point,  Mr.  McVitie?" 
[98] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"It's  a  thin  point,"  McVitie  agreed,  somewhat 
reluctantly.  "But  it'll  stand  till  we  get  something 
against  it." 

"Yes." 

"If  it  was  an  expert,  as  you  think,  he'd  not 
linger  about  the  house,  and  he'd  be  likely  to  have 
an  open  window  or  door  behind  him.  Go  down 
and  talk  to  the  servants,  and  see  if  anything  was 
amiss  this  morning.  If  I'm  right  it'll  do  no  harm 
to  let  them  think  we're  on  a  false  track." 

"Shall  I  go  now?" 

"Yes,  and  come  back  when  you're  finished.  And 
if  any  one  tells  you  a  window  was  found  open,  we'll 
see  him  later;  the  right  man  won't  speak  the 
truth." 

Left  alone,  McVitie  sat  down  to  think  over  the 
whole  matter  and  to  marshal  the  possibilities  which 
he  had  to  examine.  Although  he  was  too  shrewd 
to  prejudge  a  case  on  insufficient  data,  and  always 
kept  his  mind  wide  open  to  receive  the  faintest 
impressions,  he  could  not  resist  shaping  a  theory. 
His  experience  of  jewel  robberies  had  taught  him 
that,  almost  invariably,  a  servant  was  implicated — 
either  indirectly,  by  gossiping  of  what  there  was  to 
be  got;  or  directly,  by  giving  information  about 
the  habits  of  the  owners  and  providing  a  way  of 
entrance  and  escape. 

In  this  case  the  bolt  on  one  side  of  the  door  be- 
tween the  two  rooms  had  been  undone  beforehand, 
which  was  strongly  suggestive  of  a  servant's  com- 
plicity. Later,  during  the  night,  the  thief  had  got 

[99] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

In  through  Pfeiffer's  room;  or,  at  all  events,  sup- 
posing that  he  had  been  concealed  between  the 
curtain  and  the  door,  he  had  got  out  that  way. 

So  far,  McVitie  conceded,  there  was  nothing  to 
show  whether  the  actual  thief  was  a  servant  or  an 
expert.  Shaw's  argument  that  the  game  was  too 
big  for  a  servant  was  good;  but,  against  this,  there 
was  the  print  of  the  naked  foot.  That  did  point 
to  some  one  in  the  house.  He  got  up  and  opened 
the  door  to  look  again  at  the  footmark.  Though 
blurred,  it  was  definite  enough  to  show  that  it  had 
been  made  by  a  rather  long,  narrow  foot.  It  sug- 
gested a  man  who  was  accustomed  to  wear  neat 
boots.  But  after  all,  he  reflected,  it  was  not  a 
clue  upon  which  one  could  build  much  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  he  turned  again  to  the  question  of  the 
thief's  movements. 

Undoubtedly,  he  passed  through  Pfeiffer's  room, 
and  his  choice  of  exit  lay  between  the  door  and  the 
window.  McVitie  sat  down  on  the  window-seat 
and  leant  out.  There  was  no  ivy  or  creeper  on  the 
house  and  no  water  pipe  within  reach.  The  wall 
was  of  smooth  stone,  without  foothold  enough  for 
a  monkey.  Beneath  was  a  broad  terrace,  newly 
graveled.  The  heavy  rain  had  prevented  it  from 
setting  firmly,  and  even  from  that  height  a  number 
of  footmarks  could  be  seen  upon  it. 

"If  he  went  this  way,"  McVitie  said,  "he  must 
have  had  a  ladder,  and  the  gravel  will  show  that. 
It's  an  easier  way  than  through  the  house  and  a 
favorite  one  with  jewel  thieves." 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

Shaw  now  returned  and  said: 

"I've  seen  all  the  servants.  The  butler  goes 
round  the  house  the  last  thing,  and  everything  was 
in  order  last  night.  The  kitchen-maid  and  the 
under-footman  open  the  house  in  the  morning,  and 
they  say  they  found  nothing  unusual  to-day.  I 
asked  them  if  they  would  have  noticed  a  window 
open,  and  they  declared  they  certainly  would. 
They  are  positive  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind." 

McVitie  nodded. 

"It  looks  as  if  you  are  right,  Mr.  McVitie,  un- 
less  "  Shaw  added,  glancing  at  the  window. 

"I've  thought  of  that.  See,  there's  soft  grave/ 
below.  Go  down  and  try  for  a  trace  on  it.  There 
must  have  been  a  ladder;  there's  no  foothold  on 
the  wall." 

Shaw  left  the  room,  and  a  minute  later  he  ap- 
peared on  the  terrace. 

"Walk  close  under  the  wall,"  McVitie  said, 
leaning  out. 

Shaw  went  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and 
studied  the  ground  carefully.  Presently  he  raised 
his  head,  saying  in  a  low  voice: 

"There  are  no  footmarks  just  here  under  the 
window  and  no  ladder  has  been  pitched." 

"Then  he  didn't  go  by  the  window." 

"Shall  I  come  up?" 

"No.  Walk  around  the  back  premises  and  see 
what  ladders  there  are.  Better  make  sure." 

They  had  got,  then,  McVitie  reflected,  to  this. 
The  thief  had  bare  feet  and  he  made  his  exit 
[101] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

through  Pfeiffer's  room  into  the  passage.     If  he 
lived  in  the  house,  his  course  was  plain  enough- 
he  went  back  to  bed,  and  during  the  morning  he 
had  had  ample  time  to  hide  the  necklace,  or— 
more  probably — to  pass  it  to  an  accomplice  outside. 

McVitie  had  at  first  been  inclined  to  favor  this 
theory,  but  further  consideration  made  him  hesi- 
tate. The  footprint  in  the  dust  was  too  large  for 
a  woman's,  and  there  were  only  three  male  servants 
sleeping  on  the  premises.  Gibson,  the  butler,  was 
an  elderly  man,  and  had  a  long  record;  and  neither 
of  the  footmen  were  newcomers.  A  thief  in  a 
way  of  business  large  enough  to  take  a  necklace 
of  such  value  would  not  go  into  service  for  two 
or  three  years  on  the  chance  of  getting  it;  and  be- 
sides, the  necklace  did  not  belong  to  one  of  the 
family,  so  the  object  was  altogether  too  remote. 

Then  as  to  the  other  inmates.  Of  course,  it  was 
always  possible  that  a  guest  might  be  a  sharper  in 
disguise,  but  here  they  seemed  genuine  enough. 
Eraser,  the  Benyons,  and  Miss  Carew  were  all 
known  to  him  by  repute.  Drury  was  a  man  in  a 
good  business  position  in  London.  And  Pfeiffer 
was  the  usual  type  of  harmless  town  loafer  and 
had  been  intimate  with  the  Vawdreys  for  a  long 
time.  For  the  moment,  all  of  them  might  be  dis- 
regarded, though  he  would,  of  course,  have  them 
looked  up  later. 

After  reviewing  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
case,  McVitie  now  swung  over  to  the  belief  that 
an  expert  hand  had  done  the  business.  Most  prob- 

[102] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

ably,  the  necklace  had  been  watched  for  some  time, 
and  this  Scotch  visit  had  been  chosen  as  a  good 
opportunity  for  getting  it.  A  little  love-making 
with  one  of  the  maids  would  prepare  the  way,  a 
little  persuasion  brought  to  bear  on  a  foolish,  not 
over-scrupulous  girl,  and  the  thing  was  as  good  as 
done. 

The  closer  consideration  of  this  theory  brought 
certain  points  into  notice.  The  thief  was  well 
posted  as  to  the  house.  He  knew  that  there  was  a 
door  between  the  two  rooms,  and  he  knew  that  the 
necklace  was  kept,  apart  from  the  other  less  val- 
uable jewelry,  on  a  shelf  of  the  dressing-table.  It 
might  also  be  inferred  that  he  knew  that  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  was  a  light  sleeper;  for,  otherwise, 
what  reason  would  be  have  had  for  escaping 
through  Pfeiffer's  room  rather  than  through  hers? 
In  all  probability,  he  concealed  himself  between  the 
door  and  the  curtain  during  the  evening,  for  he 
would  scarcely  risk  two  journeys  across  Pfeiffer's 
room.  The  maid  had  tucked  him  in  and  unbolted 
the  door  on  Pfeiffer's  side  while  the  guests  were  at 
dinner,  or  perhaps  a  little  later. 

The  evidence  of  the  kitchen-maid  that  no  door 
or  window  had  been  found  open  in  the  morning 
went  for  nothing.  Either  she  was  the  one  im- 
plicated or,  more  probably,  the  thief  had  been  let 
out  and  the  window  closed  behind  him. 

McVitie  found  that  this  theory  bore  the  test  of 
examination  fairly  well,  so  far  as  his  present  in- 
formation went.  Moreover,  it  agreed  with  the 
[103] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

idea  that  the  theft  had  been  planned  some  time  in 
advance,  and  carried  out,  as  all  such  big  thefts  are, 
with  simplicity  and  precision.  If,  as  he  suspected, 
the  accomplice  among  the  servants  was  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing's  maid,  the  plot  might  have  been  hatch- 
ing for  months. 

On  the  assumption  that  it  was  the  work  of  a 
first-class  jewel  thief,  immediate  action  was  neces- 
sary outside  the  house.  In  such  a  thinly  populated 
neighborhood  a  stranger  would  be  noticed,  and  a 
thorough  inquiry  must  be  made.  He  would  send 
Shaw  out  at  once.  With  a  haul  of  this  size  they 
would  hardly  risk  a  railway  station;  there  ought 
to  be  news  of  a  big  motor-car  seen,  or  heard,  in 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning. 

McVitie's  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  Shaw's 
return. 

"There's  a  short  ladder  in  the  stable,"  he  said, 
"and  three  more  in  an  outhouse.  I've  looked  at 
them  all.  There's  no  trace  of  gravel  on  the  ends, 
which  are  quite  dry;  they  can't  have  been  used 
out  of  doors  for  several  days.  The  outhouse  and 
the  stable  are  always  locked  up  at  night." 

"Good.  That  settles  it  that  the  man  escaped 
through  the  house  with  the  connivance  of  a  servant. 
And  adding  one  thing  to  another,  I  think  we'll  find 
he's  shown  a  clean  pair  of  heels.  I've  come  to 
think  we're  up  against  a  professional." 

"Have  you  found  anything  fresh?"  Shaw  asked 
eagerly. 

"No;  just  thinking.  You've  got  to  act  promptly, 
[104] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

while  I  stay  here.  Go  round  the  village,  see  the 
constable  and  any  one  else  handy,  and  pick  up  trace 
of  a  stranger.  I'll  be  surprised  if  you  don't  hear 
of  a  fast-looking  car." 

"Very  good." 

"Ask  the  chauffeur  to  give  you  a  ride  in  the 
motor;  and  if  you  get  nothing  in  the  village  go 
on  down  the  road  for  a  few  miles.  You  can  report 
to  me  here;  or,  in  your  discretion,  get  through  on 
the  wire  to  Edinburgh — that  is,  if  you  get  a  de- 
scription of  a  car." 

"Very  good." 

"And  as  you  go  out  tell  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
maid  I  want  to  see  her  up  here." 


[105] 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  a  few  minutes  Mademoiselle  Celeste  knocked 
at  the  door  and  came  in.  Although  no  longer 
hysterical,  she  was  excited,  and  her  big  brown  eyes 
gave  promise  of  ready  tears.  A  more  pliant  man 
than  James  McVitie  might  have  prefaced  his  in- 
quiries with  some  expression  of  sympathy,  or  even 
with  a  warmer  tribute  to  her  undeniable  attractive- 
ness, but  his  dry  lips  had  never  whispered  soft 
words  in  a  pretty  ear  and  he  had  no  intention  of 
beginning  now.  To  his  annoyance,  moreover,  he 
found  himself  hampered  by  the  fact  that  Celeste's 
English  was  about  on  a  par  with  his  own  French, 
though  infinitely  more  pleasant  in  sound;  and  after 
a  futile  effort  to  understand  her,  he  rang  the  bell 
and  asked  if  there  was  any  one  in  the  house  who 
could  act  as  interpreter. 

Of  all  unlikely  people,  Gibson  appeared.  In  his 
younger  days  he  had  been  valet  to  a  cosmopolitan 
millionaire,  and  had  passed  a  good  part  of  several 
years  at  a  chateau  near  Tours. 

"Can  you  speak  French?"  McVitie  asked,  with 
a  look  of  sour  surprise. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  understand  you  wish  me  to  trans- 
late for  the  young  person." 

McVitie  nodded.  His  thoughts  had  been  dis- 
sipated, and  it  was  a  moment  or  two  before  he 
could  collect  them. 

[106] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"Ask  her  when  she  saw  the  necklace  last,"  he 
said  at  length. 

"When  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  went  down  to  dinner 
last  night,  sir.  She  was  wearing  it." 

"Did  she  remain  in  the  room  after  that?" 

"A  few  minutes  only,  sir." 

"Did  she  come  up  here  again  afterward?" 

"At  about  ten  o'clock,  to  lay  out  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  things  for  the  night." 

"Was  any  one  with  her?" 

"No,  sir." 

"As  far  as  she  knows,  no  one  was  in  the  room 
then  or  later?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  she  hear  any  one  in  this  room?" 

"No,  sir." 

"When  did  she  first  learn  that  the  necklace  was 
missing?" 

A  somewhat  long  conversation  ensued  be- 
tween Celeste  and  Gibson,  at  the  end  of  which  he 
said: 

"She  brought  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  tea  at  eight 
o'clock,  as  usual.  She  was  with  her  some  time. 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was  much  disturbed,  sir,  and 
at  last  she  told  her  that  the  necklace  had  been 
stolen." 

"H'm!" 

McVitie  considered  a  moment.  Then  he  said 
abruptly : 

"Ask  her  whether  she's  keeping  company  with 
any  one." 

[107] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Gibson's  face  became  faintly  pink,  and  he  hesi- 
tated before  he  put  the  question  into  French.  He 
was  offended  and  rather  shocked,  for  he  did  not 
think  such  a  line  of  interrogation  gentlemanly. 
Perhaps,  too,  his  disinclination  to  serve  McVitie's 
curiosity  was  partly  due  to  his  having  condescended, 
from  the  height  of  his  position  as  butler,  to  enter 
into  a  few  pleasantries  with  Mademoiselle  Celeste. 
At  last,  however,  he  translated,  wrapping  up  the 
inquiry  as  politely  as  he  could. 

Celeste  blushed  very  prettily,  and  gave  him  the 
full  benefit  of  her  eyes  as  she  answered.  Gibson, 
very  erect  and  with  a  face  of  wood,  explained: 

"The  young  person,  sir,  says  she  has  had  af- 
fairs." 

"Maintenantj  avez-vons?"  McVitie  demanded. 

Celeste  laughed  in  his  face,  and  said  something 
to  Gibson  in  rapid  French  which  made  his  mouth 
twitch.  Monsieur  Gibson,  at  the  chateau  near 
Tours,  had  not  always  been  so  dignified  as  he  was 
at  Gains. 

"What  does  she  say?"  McVitie  demanded  im- 
patiently. 

"I  think,  sir,  if  you'll  excuse  me,"  Gibson  said, 
in  his  most  episcopal  manner,  "that  you  will  find 
this  course  of  inquiry  unprofitable.  The  young 
person  is  French." 

McVitie  was  furious.     He  longed  for  a  police 

interpreter,  who  would  put  the  hussy  in  her  place. 

He  would  get  a  warrant  and  have  her  remanded 

in  custody  for  a  week;  that  was  what  she  wanted. 

[108] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

Outwardly,  he  remained  calm,  and  it  was  only  a 
flicker  of  his  eyelids  that  betrayed  his  anger. 

"I  asked  whether  she  was  keeping  company  now 
with  a  young  man,"  he  said.  "I  want  an  answer." 

Gibson,  without  referring  again  to  Celeste,  re- 
plied: "No,  sir.  No  one  in  particular." 

With  a  sour  smile,  which  he  meant  to  be  agree- 
able, McVitie  pressed  the  question. 

"Surely,  a  young  lady  so  good  looking — there 
must  be  a  friend." 

After  conference,  Gibson  said  coldly: 

"She  is  not  engaged  to  be  married,  sir,  if  that 
is  what  you  are  asking." 

"Then  who  gave  her  that  ring?"  McVitie  asked 
suddenly,  pointing  to  her  left  hand. 

Gibson's  translation  seemed  to  touch  "the  young 
person"  on  the  raw,  for  she  fired  up  and  poured 
out  a  torrent  of  words  which  seemed  unending. 
Gibson,  after  listening  for  some  time,  waved  to 
her  to  be  silent;  and,  turning  to  McVitie,  he  said: 

"She  refuses  to  say,  sir." 

"Ah !  Does  she !  And  she  took  three  minutes 
by  the  clock  to  tell  you  that.  Just  translate  what 
she  did  say,  please." 

Gibson  moved  restlessly. 

"Go  on,  sharp,"  McVitie  rasped. 

"She  says,  sir,  she  has  no  cause  to  answer  ques- 
tions of  the  sort.  She  is  employed  by  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing,  who  is  satisfied  with  her,  and  such  things 
as  presents  are  her  own  business.  She  used  very 

[  109] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

insulting  language  toward  you — quite  impossible 
in  English,  sir." 

"Ask  her  again  who  gave  it  to  her,"  McVitie  in- 
sisted. "If  she  persists  in  refusing  to  answer  tell 
her  I  shall  find  a  way  to  open  her  mouth  which  she 
won't  like." 

"She  won't  say,  sir,"  Gibson  repeated. 

"Perhaps  she  will  tell  us  when  she  received  it?" 

Mademoiselle  Celeste  met  the  question  with  a 
flick  of  words  and  a  flash  of  scorn  in  her  eyes. 
Gibson  looked  horrified  at  what  she  had  said  and 
cried : 

"Tst!    Tst!" 

"She  won't  answer,  sir,"  he  added  to  McVitie. 

"Very  well.  We  can  infer.  Have  you  seen  her 
carrying  on  with  any  one  while  she  has  been  here?" 

"No,  sir,"  Gibson  answered,  drawing  himself 
up.  "A  most  respectable  young  person,  I  believe, 
sir." 

"All  right.  You  can  take  her  away  now,  but  I 
shall  want  her  again  later." 

It  looked  promising,  McVitie  thought.  The 
ring  was  doubtless  the  price  she  had  received,  and 
her  denial  that  she  was  keeping  company  with  any 
one  left  her  without  an  explanation  for  having  it. 
Gibson's  testimony  confirmed  this  view ;  for  in  the 
servants'  hall  there  are  no  secrets,  and  he  would 
have  known  if  she  had  a  recognized  follower  in 
London. 

He  sat  for  some  time,  reviewing  various  aspects 
of  the  case,  and  becoming  more  and  more  con- 
[110] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

vinced  that  the  key  of  the  mystery  lay  between  the 
French  maid  and  an  expert  London  "crook"  who 
had  bent  her  to  his  purpose.  It  was  an  old  story, 
so  old  that  it  was  always  surprising  to  find  how 
gullible  such  women  were. 

It  was  after  six  when  Shaw  returned.  McVitie's 
certainty  voiced  itself  in  the  question: 

"Have  you  got  in  touch  with  him?" 

Shaw  stood,  turning  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
answered  despondently : 

"I  can't  make  it  out.  There  isn't  a  clue  any- 
where." 

"Do  you  mean  you've  found  nothing  at  all?" 

"Nothing.  I  saw  the  constable  here  and  the 
innkeepers  and  talked  to  several  people.  They 
haven't  noticed  any  stranger  anywhere  near  the 
village.  As  to  a  motor,  they're  all  positive  there 
hasn't  been  one.  The  place  is  off  the  main  road, 
and  except  for  the  cars  here  it's  very  seldom  one 
goes  through." 

"Did  you  go  further?" 

"Yes,  several  miles  along.  I  questioned  half  a 
dozen  people,  but  I  couldn't  pick  up  anything. 
Then  I  went  to  the  station.  There  was  no  stranger 
on  the  early  train  this  morning.  They  only  issued 
two  tickets,  and  they  know  who  had  them." 

"H'm !  That's  curious.  It  isn't  so  easy  to  slip 
through." 

"No,  it's  a  puzzler.  I  made  sure  I'd  hear  some- 
thing." 

"I  must  take  it  up  myself  and  leave  you  here," 
[in] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

McVitie  said  decisively.  "That  French  maid  of 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  is  in  it ;  keep  your  eye  on  her. 
With  a  little  more  evidence  I  shall  apply  for  her 
arrest." 

"Shall  I  have  a  talk  to  her?" 

"Better  not.  She  pretends  she  can't  speak 
English,  and  I  must  get  an  official  interpreter  from' 
headquarters." 

"Is  there  anything  else  to  do  before  your  re- 
turn?" 

"Yes.  Send  in  a  complete  list  of  names  for 
examination,  and  tell  them  to  warn  London  with 
full  particulars.  Before  I  go  I'll  just  see  Pfeiffer, 
as  he's  waiting  for  me.  Bring  him  up,  will  you?" 


[112] 


CHAPTER  V 

cVITIE  dropped  into  a  chair  and  examined 
the  bearings  of  the  story  once  more  while 
he  was  waiting.  If  he  was  on  the  right  line, 
Pfeiffer  would  not  have  anything  to  say  which  was 
worth  knowing;  but  he  thought  it  better  to  see 
him  before  devoting  himself  to  the  trail  outside 
the  house,  for  that  might  carry  him  afield  before 
he  was  able  to  return  to  Gains. 

Plans  and  theories,  however,  as  James  McVitie 
knew  better  than  most  people,  "gang  aft  a-gley," 
and  the  structure  of  facts  and  inferences  which  his 
logical  brain  had  raised  was  about  to  be  upset  by 
a  most  unexpected  piece  of  information.  The  in- 
formation was  unexpected,  not  because  it  was 
absolutely  incredible;  but  because,  knowing  as 
much  as  he  did,  it  was  beyond  hope  that  he  would 
ever  obtain  it. 

When  Pfeiffer  came  in,  accompanied  by  Shaw, 
McVitie  favored  him  with  one  of  his  awkward 
nods,  in  which  a  protest  against  any  form  of  civility 
seemed  to  be  the  chief  ingredient. 

"I'd  like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,  Mr. 
Pfeiffer,"  he  said. 

"Certainly.     I'm  at  your  service." 

Thus  launched,  McVitie  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
continue,  and  a  long  pause  ensued,  during  which 
his  expressionless  eyes  played  ceaselessly  upon 
Pfeiffer.  He  knew  his  class,  and  he  had  no  respect 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

for  it — an  idle,  luxurious  class,  though  not  a 
criminal  one. 

In  placing  Willie  Pfeiffer  thus  McVitie  was 
scarcely  doing  him  justice;  for,  although  he  was 
always  in  debt,  and  was  not  overscrupulous  in  deal- 
ing with  his  creditors,  he  was  kind-hearted  and 
singularly  free  from  the  meaner  forms  of  vice.  A 
German  by  birth,  he  would  have  passed  for  an 
Englishman.  He  wore  English  clothes,  very  well 
cut,  and  his  appearance  conformed  in  all  particu- 
lars to  the  smart  London  standard.  He  had  very 
good  manners,  and  every  one  liked  him.  Indeed, 
he  depended  on  this  for  his  living,  for  he  had  no 
profession,  and  his  income  was  derived  from  the 
commissions  which  he  earned  by  introducing  clients 
to  a  firm  of  stock  brokers.  A  century  ago  he  might 
have  been  called  an  adventurer,  but  opinion  now  is 
more  tolerant;  and  shares,  motors,  and  other  com- 
modities are  the  recognized  means  of  support  for 
young  gentlemen  of  good  family  and  pleasing  ad- 
dress. He  was,  in  fact,  a  product  of  his  age,  with 
the  easiest  code  of  morals,  and  a  strong  objection 
to  sitting  in  judgment  upon  any  one.  He  knew 
everybody,  from  old  Lady  Catskill,  who  sent  him 
an  occasional  card  for  a  missionary  At  Home,  to 
Roy  Phillides,  who  had  lost  three  fortunes  on  the 
turf  and  was  known  as  the  professional  co- 
respondent. 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Pfeiffer,"  Mr.  McVitie  began  at 
last,  "that  you  slept  in  this  room  last  night?" 

"Yes." 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"You  heard  nothing  suspicious,  I  suppose?  You 
were  not  disturbed?" 

"No.    I  don't  think  I  woke  once." 

"Did  you  come  to  bed  at  the  same  time  as  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing?" 

"A  few  minutes  after.  We  were  dancing  last 
night  and  were  all  rather  late.  When  the  ladies 
retired  we  went  into  the  billiard-room,  and  I  had 
a  whiskey  and  soda  and  a  cigarette;  but  I  wasn't 
there  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"In  that  case  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  would  still  be 
undressing  when  you  came  up?" 

"Undoubtedly,  I  should  think." 

"Did  you  go  straight  to  bed?" 

"Yes,  at  once." 

"Have  you  a  servant?    Was  he  here  with  you?" 

"I  haven't  one.    The  footman  valets  me." 

"He  wasn't  in  the  room  last  night?'" 

"Not  when  I  went  to  bed.  I  suppose  he  was 
here  earlier  in  the  evening." 

"Which  footman  attends  to  you?" 

"Tipton." 

"Do  you  know  which  maid  waits  on  you?" 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  I've  never  seen  one  in  the 
room  at  all." 

"After  you  came  up  last  night,  did  you  leave 
your  room  at  any  time  until  you  went  down  to 
breakfast  this  morning?" 

"No.  I  have  my  bath  here.  This  morning 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  maid  brought  me  a  note,  and 
later  Mr.  Vawdrey  came  to  see  me;  but  I  did  not 
leave  the  room." 

[US] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Not  for  a  moment?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  McVitie  turned  to 
the  door  which  led  into  Mrs.  Dayrell- Wing's  room, 
saying : 

"This  door  is  bolted,  as  you  see.  There  is  a 
bolt  on  the  other  side,  which  is  not  shot;  so  one 
can  open  it  from  this  side." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  it  open  since  you've  been 
here?" 

"Never." 

"You  have  never,  by  chance,  opened  it  your- 
self?" 

Pfeiffer  frowned. 

"My  good  sir,"  he  said,  "I  can  assure  you  that 
my  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  is  much 
too  slight  to  justify  my  walking  into  her  bedroom. 
I  think  I  have  once  dined  at  her  flat,  and  I  have 
met  her  at  other  people's  houses;  but  I  certainly 
should  not  count  her  among  my  friends." 

"Ah!" 

"What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"Nothing.  I  just  wanted  to  hear  if  you  had 
opened  the  door;  you  might  have  done  so,  think- 
ing it  was  a  cupboard." 

Pfeiffer  did  not  answer,  and  McVitie  added, 
rather  dryly : 

"I  take  it,  then,  that  you  hardly  noticed  there 
was  a  door?" 

"I  knew  it  was  there,  of  course." 

"But  you  wouldn't  have  noticed,  for  example, 
[116] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

whether  it  was  bolted  when  you  went  to  bed  last 
night?" 

"No,  I  didn't  notice." 

McVitie  paused  again,  asking  himself  whether 
there  were  any  other  questions  to  put  to  Pfeiffer. 
The  only  point  on  which  his  evidence  might  have 
been  valuable  was  as  to  whether  the  bolt  on  his 
side  of  the  door  had  been  fastened,  and  of  this  he 
was  not  sure.  While  McVitie  was  making  up  his 
mind  to  get  rid  of  him,  Pfeiffer  broke  in  upon  his 
thoughts,  saying: 

"I  gather  that  you  think  the  burglar  must  have 
come  through  my  room  while  I  was  asleep  ?" 

"That  is  fairly  certain,"  McVitie  assented. 
"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  door  was  bolted  inside  when 
she  woke  this  morning." 

"So  was  mine,"  Pfeiffer  said.  "Then  he  must 
have  got  away  by  the  window;  it  was  wide  open." 

McVitie  looked  up  suddenly.  He  had  been 
sprawling  in  an  armchair,  and  throughout  the  in- 
terview he  had  seemed  to  be  bored  and  rather 
tired.  Now  his  lassitude  disappeared  in  a  flash 
and  his  whole  figure  became  keenly  alive. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  sharply.  "You  say 
your  door  was  bolted?" 

"Yes.  I  bolted  it  because  some  of  the  party 
had  been  playing  wretched  jokes,  and  I  didn't  want 
them  bursting  in  on  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

"You  are  quite  sure  it  was  bolted  last  night?" 

"Quite." 

"Thank  you.    That  will  do." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AS  the  door  closed  behind  Pfeiffer,  McVitie  and 
Shaw  turned  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"Why  did  he  let  it  out?"  Shaw  exclaimed. 

"We  needn't  answer  that,"  McVitie  said  slowly, 
"until  we've  been  over  that  bit  of  gravel  inch  by 
inch." 

"I  wouldn't  have  missed  it." 

"We'll  make  sure." 

They  locked  up  the  room  and  went  downstairs 
and  out  through  the  hall  door  on  to  the  terrace. 
Rain  had  been  falling  again,  and  the  new  gravel 
scrunched  under  their  feet.  McVitie  stopped  and 
looked  at  the  impression  made  by  his  boot;  then 
he  bent  down  and  tried  the  gravel  with  his  thumb. 

"It's  as  soft  as  cheese,"  he  said. 

"There's  been  a  lot  of  walking  up  and  down. 
Look  how  the  marks  are  trodden  over." 

The  terrace  extended  from  one  end  of  the  house 
to  the  other  and  was  about  twenty  feet  broad.  It 
was  surrounded  with  three  shallow  steps  of  granite, 
and  large  stone  vases  were  placed  at  intervals  along 
the  top  of  the  steps.  The  gravel  was  fine  and  free 
from  pebbles,  and  it  had  been  spread  about  an  inch 
deep  over  the  older  surface.  At  the  far  corner  a 
garden  roller  was  standing,  and  a  man  was  in  the 
act  of  pulling  it  forward.  McVitie  and  Shaw 
walked  quickly  toward  him,  keeping  on  the  stone 
step. 

[118] 


"You  are  going  to  roll  the  gravel?"  McVitie 
asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  might  leave  it  for  to-day." 

"Are  you  the  detective  from  Edinburgh?"  the 
man  asked. 

"Yes.     Is  the  gravel  only  just  laid?" 

"A  few  days  since.  It  was  late  coming;  it  was 
ordered  for  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Was  it  rolled  yesterday?" 

"Yes." 

"And  this  morning?" 

"No.     I've  no  time  in  the  morning." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you." 

McVitie  and  Shaw  turned  away  and  walked  back 
till  they  came  to  Pfeiffer's  window. 

"Get  a  stick,"  McVitie  said,  "and  mark  off  ten 
feet  on  either  side  of  here  and  ten  feet  from  the 
wall  outward." 

When  this  had  been  done  he  knelt  down  and 
began  to  examine  the  impressions  on  the  gravel. 
On  the  outer  side  of  the  terrace  there  were  a  great 
number  of  footmarks  mingled  together  and  over- 
lapping; for  there  had  been  no  shooting  to-day 
and  the  party  had  taken  advantage  of  an  interval 
between  the  showers  to  get  a  little  exercise  by  walk- 
ing up  and  down.  All  the  footprints  were  parallel 
to  the  house,  and  could  easily  be  followed  beyond 
the  limits  which  Shaw  had  drawn. 

Nearer  in  there  were  only  a  few  marks,  and 
these  were  also  parallel  to  the  house,  as  if  made  by 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

two  people  walking  together,  somewhat  apart  from 
the  others.  They  were  plainly  discernible — a 
man's  heavy  boots  with  broad  soles  and  a  girl's 
pointed  shoes. 

McVitie  went  closer  to  the  house  and  lay  prone 
on  the  gravel,  but  under  the  window  he  could  find 
no  marks  of  any  kind.  Not  only  were  there  no 
traces  of  a  ladder  having  been  set  up,  but  there 
were  no  footprints  save  those  of  the  two  people 
who  had  walked  the  length  of  the  terrace. 

He  stood  up  at  last  and  brushed  his  clothes  with 
his  hand,  saying  curtly : 

"This  is  a  hot  thing.    There  was  no  ladder." 

They  went  indoors  again  and  returned  to 
Pfeiffer's  room.  McVitie  wanted  to  think.  He 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  his  body,  which  was  tired, 
and  hang  it  up  somewhere  like  an  overcoat,  so  as 
to  set  his  mind  absolutely  free.  He  sat  down  in 
an  armchair,  with  his  feet  on  the  sofa,  and  lighted 
a  long,  thin  cigar.  Shaw,  recognizing  his  mood, 
retreated  to  the  window-seat  and  remained  there  in 
silence. 

McVitie  smoked  his  cigar  down  to  the  butt  be- 
fore he  spoke.  Then,  without  turning  his  head, 
he  began  as  if  talking  to  himself: 

"This  is  where  we've  got  to.  When  the  theft 
was  discovered  the  woman's  door  was  bolted  in- 
side and  Pfeiffer's  door  was  bolted  inside;  so  no 
one  could  have  got  out  of  either  room  into  the 
passage.  The  woman's  windows  were  closed  at 
the  bottom.  She's  a  light  sleeper,  she  says,  so 
[  120] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

any  one  trying  to  get  out  that  way  would  have 
woke  her." 

Shaw  said  nothing,  and  McVitie  presently 
went  on : 

"Pfeiffer's  window  was  open.  Any  one  could 
have  got  out  that  way  without  waking  him.  But 
he  couldn't  have  climbed  the  wall,  and  he  didn't 
use  a  ladder,  and  he  didn't  let  himself  drop.  It's 
plain  enough  from  the  state  of  the  gravel  that  no 
one  has  been  under  the  window  for  at  least  twenty- 
four  hours,  because  it  hasn't  been  rolled  since  yes- 
terday afternoon.  Then  there's  the  mark  of  the 
naked  foot  on  the  boards.  That  suggests  that  the 
thief  was  living  in  the  house.  It  goes  to  confirm, 
also,  that  the  necklace  was  really  stolen,  and  that 
this  is  not  a  fraud  got  up  by  the  woman  for  the 
sake  of  the  insurance  money." 

He  paused  again  and  remained  silent  for  some 
minutes  before  he  continued: 

"We  have  proved,  then,  that  no  one  could  have 
got  into  these  two  rooms,  or  out  of  them,  either 
by  the  passage  doors  or  by  the  windows.  The  rob- 
bery was  discovered  this  morning,  and  the  rooms 
were  searched  by  Vawdrey  before  they  were  left 
empty.  And  no  one  was  found  concealed  in  them." 

Shaw  had  moved  forward  and  was  now  stand- 
ing in  front  of  McVitie.  His  eyes  narrowed 
slightly  and  he  said  in  a  quick,  low  tone: 

"It's  a  clear  case.  But  why  did  he  tell  us  his 
door  was  bolted?" 

"It's  a  clear  case — against  Pfeiffer.    And  it  may 

[121] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

explain  why  you  found  no  clue  on  the  road.  But 
until  we  trace  the  necklace  to  him  there  isn't  evi- 
dence to  arrest  him  on." 

"But  it  can't  be  far  away,"  Shaw  said,  glancing 
round  the  room. 

"He  may  have  passed  it  during  the  day;  we 
don't  know  where  he's  been.  If  he  has  passed  it, 
there's  an  accomplice  outside;  but  you  didn't  hear 
of  one." 

"I  might  have  missed  it;  I  didn't  have  much 
time.  I  would  rather  have  suspected  an  accom- 
plice." 

"No.  Take  it  this  way.  Pfeiffer  is  either  a 
tip-top  expert  come  here  for  the  purpose  or  just  a 
thief  on  a  sudden  temptation — pressed  for  money 
and  seeing  a  way  out  under  his  hand.  If  he's  an 
expert,  he'll  know  the  danger  of  having  any  one 
hanging  about  in  a  country  village,  a  mark  for  all 
eyes,  and  he'd  sooner  risk  keeping  the  stuff  by  him 
or  in  some  hiding-place.  If  he's  a  new  hand,  it 
goes  without  saying  he's  working  alone;  and  if  we 
don't  land  him  now  we  shall  have  another  chance 
later  when  he  tries  to  sell  it." 

"Do  you  think  he's  a  new  hand?" 

"I  incline  to  it.  He  told  us  his  door  was  bolted 
and  suggested  the  window,  forgetting  about  the 
gravel  below.  That  was  clumsy." 

"Suppose  he'd  passed  it  before  he  said  that.  It 
wouldn't  be  a  bad  card  to  play  if  he  knew  the 
necklace  was  safe." 

"Dangerous.     Only  a  very  clever  crook  would 

[122] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

risk  it.    In  any  case,  we'll  work  first  on  the  theory 
that  he's  a  new  hand  and  we'll  search  this  room." 

He  stood  up  and  was  taking  off  his  coat  when 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Shaw  opened  it 
and  found  Mrs.  Pannell,  the  housekeeper,  with 
some  of  the  maids. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  intruding,  sir,"  Mrs.  Pannell 
said,  "but  orders  have  been  given  to  prepare  two 
other  rooms  for  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  and  Mr. 
Pfeiffer.  Can  the  maids  move  their  things,  for  it's 
getting  near  time  to  dress  for  dinner?" 

McVitie  fingered  his  moustache  for  a  moment 
before  he  answered.  He  could  not  have  Pfeiffer's 
room  disturbed  before  it  had  been  searched,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  did  not  want  to  do  anything 
to  put  the  man  on  his  guard. 

"It's  a  little  inconvenient  at  present,"  he 
drawled.  "We  are  writing  up  our  notes.  But 
we've  finished  with  the  lady's  room." 

"Then  can  we  take  her  things  first  and  come 
again  for  Mr.  Pfeiffer's?" 

"You  can  clear  out  her  room,  but  we  shall  be 
some  time  here." 

"Then  suppose  we  take  just  an  evening  suit  and 
the  toilet  articles  and  leave  the  rest  till  after 
dinner?" 

"Yes,  you  can  do  that." 

He  stood  by  while    Mrs.    Pannell   opened   the 

wardrobe  and  laid  out  the  clothes,  with  a  shirt, 

socks,    ties,    and    handkerchief.      He    passed    his 

hands  lightly  over  the  suit,  to  make  sure  that  there 

f  123] 


was  nothing  in  the  pockets,  and  then  allowed  the 
maids  to  take  it.  They  took  also,  under  Mrs.  Pan- 
nell's  directions,  the  brushes,  razors,  and  other 
necessary  articles  from  the  dressing-table. 

When  they  had  gone  McVitie  turned  to  Shaw, 
saying : 

"Follow  along  and  conceal  yourself  where  you 
can  watch  him  change  his  clothes.  He  may  have 
the  stuff  on  him." 

Left  alone,  McVitie  began  a  thorough  examina- 
tion of  the  room.  He  opened  every  drawer  and 
cupboard,  took  out  the  clothes  and  put  them  neatly 
back  again,  or  ran  his  hands  deftly  among  them. 
He  looked  on  the  top  of  the  wardrobe  and  behind 
the  pictures,  tapped  the  floor  for  a  loose  board  and 
explored  a  ruck  in  the  carpet ;  moved  the  furniture, 
dug  his  fingers  into  the  cushions  and  shook  out  the 
curtains.  Then,  stripping  off  the  cretonne  covers, 
he  ripped  up  the  bottoms  of  the  upholstered  chairs 
and  the  sofa  and  peered  among  the  springs.  Last 
of  all,  he  attacked  the  bed,  going  over  the  pillows 
inch  by  inch  and  opening  the  mattress. 

He  found  nothing,  and  at  each  successive  failure 
the  frown  on  his  forehead  deepened;  for  he  felt 
that,  if  Pfeiffer  was  an  amateur,  the  necklace  must 
almost  certainly  be  hidden  in  the  room.  It  was  so 
unlikely  that  he  would  risk  being  seen  putting  it 
anywhere  about  the  house  or  burying  it  in  the 
garden. 

Then,  was  Shaw's  suggestion  right?  Was 
Pfeiffer  a  criminal  of  the  first  rank,  a  master-mind 

[124] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

who  had  planned  and  carried  out  a  daring  rob- 
bery? Had  he  got  rid  of  the  spoil  without  leaving 
a  stain  on  his  hands?  If  so,  he  probably  knew 
exactly  what  was  happening  in  his  room  and  was 
enjoying  the  joke.  McVitie  was  not  addicted  to 
strong  language,  but  the  possibility  brought  a 
snarling  oath  to  his  lips. 

He  sat  down  to  think  the  matter  over  once  more. 
There  seemed  no  solution  except  the  one  which  he 
shrank  from  accepting — that  Pfeiffer  was  an  ex- 
pert, and  had  passed  the  necklace  to  a  confederate 
in  waiting  outside  or  had  hidden  it  in  some  place 
prepared  beforehand.  Even  now,  after  his  vain 
search,  he  would  not  believe  this;  but  when  Shaw 
returned,  saying  that  he  had  seen  Pfeiffer  undress 
and  that  the  necklace  was  not  on  him,  he  was 
forced  to  accept  the  theory  as  probable.  A  handful 
of  diamonds  cannot  disappear;  and  given  that 
Pfeiffer  had  stolen  them,  and  that  they  were  not 
now  in  his  possession,  the  influence  was  too  strong 
to  be  resisted.  Unfortunately,  Shaw  had  failed  to 
pick  up  a  clue  outside,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to 
do  much  until  the  morning. 

"You'd  better  go  down  to  the  village  again  and 
make  further  inquiries,"  he  said.  "And  go  to  the 
post  office.  Ask  if  any  small  parcels  have  been 
sent  off  to-day  and  by  whom.  But  wait  a  few 
minutes  first." 

Still  dallying  with  the  idea  that  Pfeiffer  was  a 
new  hand,  and  that  the  necklace  could  not  be  far 
off,  McVitie  crossed  the  room  and  examined  the 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

fireplace.  Rolling  his  shirtsleeve  up  as  far  as  it 
would  go,  he  thrust  his  arm  up  the  chimney  and 
felt  carefully  round  for  anything  which  might  be 
lodged  there.  A  shower  of  soot  and  crumbling 
mortar  was  his  only  reward;  and  as  he  withdrew 
his  blackened  arm  the  door  opened  and  Vawdrey 
came  in. 

"Hullo!    What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Searching,"  McVitie  answered  brusquely,  be- 
ing now  thoroughly  out  of  temper. 

"Have  you  found  anything?" 

"A  good  deal." 

"The  necklace?" 

"Not  yet." 

Vawdrey  smiled. 

"Well,  that's  an  important  item.  But  I  suppose 
you  mean  you've  got  a  clue  ?" 

"Yes.  I  know  who  took  it.  We  want  further 
evidence  before  we  arrest." 

"I  congratulate  you.  Come  and  see  me  after 
dinner — I'm  late  now.  You'll  find  me  in  the 
study." 

McVitie  turned  to  Shaw  and  said  in  a  disgusted 
tone: 

"He'll  think  I'm  an  idiot  because  I  can't  take 
Pfeiffer  off  to  prison.  They  always  do — fules !" 


[126] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  gaiety  of  the  house-party  had  been  abated 
by  the  theft  of  the  necklace,  and  the  jokes 
and  laughter  of  the  previous  day  had  given  place 
to  eager  conversation.  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  who 
was  saved  from  a  state  of  collapse  by  the  remem- 
brance of  her  insurance  policy,  was  the  centre  of 
interest;  and  she  had  already  told  her  story,  or 
fragments  of  it,  not  less  than  a  dozen  times.  It 
was  vexatious,  she  felt,  that  Arthur  Drury  should 
be  involved  in  the  loss;  but  she  consoled  herself 
with  the  thought  that  it  was  a  matter  of  business, 
and  that  in  business  people  balanced  the  losses 
against  the  profits.  Besides,  he  would  not  exactly 
lose  the  money,  if  things  turned  out  as  she  intended 
them  to  do. 

Drury's  absence  deepened  the  shadow  which 
had  fallen  upon  the  party,  for  he  and  Pfeiffer  had 
been  the  ringleaders  in  getting  up  amusements. 
Without  him,  Pfeiffer  seemed  depressed  and  dis- 
inclined for  anything  more  exciting  than  a  game  of 
snooker.  As  for  Fraser  and  Sir  Charles,  they 
were,  at  the  best  of  times,  somewhat  lethargic. 
Dinner,  therefore,  promised  to  be  a  gloomy  meal; 
and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  with  her  fine  instinct  for 
suitability  in  dress,  put  on  a  black  frock  and  made 
up  in  a  paler  tint  than  usual. 

But  before  the  soup  was  finished  the  table  was 
[127] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

electrified  by  Vawdrey's  announcement  that  Mc- 
Vitie  had  a  clue.  Conversation  sprang  up  as  sud- 
denly and  as  violently  as  a  cyclone,  and  speculations 
and  questions  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  With 
characteristic  disregard  of  the  servants'  presence, 
the  household  staff  was  passed  in  review,  for  every 
one  held  to  the  belief  that  some  one  in  the  house 
was  guilty.  Mrs.  Vawdrey  had  never  wavered  in 
her  suspicion  of  the  second  footman,  though,  as 
he  was  listening,  she  refrained  from  mentioning 
him  by  name.  Lady  Benyon,  less  discreet,  declared 
her  invariable  distrust  of  lady's  maids;  until 
Eraser,  wishing  to  give  the  conversation  a  lighter 
turn,  suggested  that  Gibson  should  amuse  the  com- 
pany by  confessing  on  the  spot. 

Vawdrey  was  grateful  for  the  diversion  and 
cut  in : 

"You're  all  talking  nonsense.  I'll  lay  a  hundred 
to  one  in  sovereigns  that  none  of  you  have  ever 
seen  or  heard  of  the  thief.  This  is  a  very  clever 
job,  and,  with  the  greatest  respect  for  Gibson,  I'm 
bound  to  say  I  don't  think  he's  equal  to  it — eh, 
Gibson?" 

"I  don't  think  I  am,  sir,"  Gibson  announced, 
with  a  slight  relaxation  of  the  lips,  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  smile  which  his  sense  of  decorum 
allowed  when  on  duty. 

"I'll  take  you,"  Sir  Charles  cried.  "I'd  take  a 
hundred  to  one  about  anything.  It's  a  sportin' 
risk,  even  when  the  horse  has  only  three  legs  and 
a  swinger." 

[128] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"But  you'll  tell  us  who  it  is  as  soon  as  you  know, 
won't  you,  Mr.  Vawdrey?"  Hilda  Carew  said. 

"Rather.  I'm  going  to  have  a  talk  with  our 
Scotch  friend  after  dinner,  and  subject  to  the  in- 
terests of  justice  you  shall  be  told.  So  get  ycur 
money  ready,  Sir  Charles." 

Pfeiffer  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
in  conversation  with  Ethel.  For  him,  at  all  events, 
the  hours  should  have  passed  happily  enough;  but, 
although  he  did  not  fail  in  tenderness,  she  thought 
him  rather  out  of  spirits.  He  was,  in  fact,  keenly 
apprehensive  lest  the  prize  which  was  so  near  his 
grasp  should  be  withheld  from  him,  and  this  pre- 
vented him  from  unfettered  enjoyment  of  the  very 
real  pleasures  of  the  moment. 

Though  he  was  genuinely  in  love  with  her,  he 
knew  that  he  would  not  have  asked  her  to  marry 
him  if  she  had  not  been  an  heiress,  for  love  in  a 
cottage  had  no  attractions  for  his  educated  mind. 
As  it  was,  she  suited  him  exactly.  She  was  the 
woman  he  wanted,  and  her  fortune  not  only  made 
a  marriage  possible,  but  promised  him  relief  from 
financial  anxieties  in  the  future. 

Thus,  knowing  his  own  point  of  view  too  well 
to  admit  of  self-deception,  and  knowing  also  that 
he  was  one  among  many  suitors,  he  looked  forward 
with  anything  but  pleasure  to  the  necessary  inter- 
view with  her  father.  Vawdrey  was  "one  of  the 
best"  and  had  not  an  atom  of  social  ambition,  but 
that  need  not  prevent  him  from  having  rooted 
ideas  as  to  the  kind  of  son-in-law  he  preferred,  and 
[  129] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Pfeiffer  was  aware  that,  as  he  put  it  to  Ethel,  uon 
paper  he  was  not  even  a  starter."  She  had  en- 
couraged him,  but  he  felt  extremely  nervous  when 
he  touched  Vawdrey  on  the  arm  as  they  left  the 
dining-room,  and  asked  if  he  might  see  him  in  the 
study. 

"Yes,  come  along,"  Vawdrey  said  genially. 
"But  stop — I'd  better  see  the  detective  first.  Come 
in  half  an  hour." 

Pfeiffer,  accordingly,  followed  the  other  men 
into  the  drawing-room,  while  Vawdrey  went  to 
meet  McVitie. 

McVitie's  disinclination  for  an  interview  was  not 
much  inferior  to  Pfeiffer's.  He  was  thoroughly 
out  of  humor,  in  a  smouldering  Scotch  rage,  for 
the  facts  of  the  case,  as  he  now  had  them,  showed 
that  the  robbery  had  been  planned  by  a  master 
mind.  Doubtless,  the  necklace  was  well  on  its 
way  to  the  Continent,  and  there  was  small  chance 
either  of  recovering  it  or  of  convicting  the  thief. 
Worse  still,  Pfeiffer  knew  that  there  was  no  proof 
against  him  strong  enough  to  justify  action,  and 
he  was  playing  the  game  of  innocence — playing  it, 
too,  with  remarkable  ability.  It  was  a  clever 
stroke  for  him  to  say  that  his  door  was  locked, 
practically  a  challenge — "Yes,  I  took  it.  Prove  it 
if  you  can." 

And  McVitie  could  not  prove  it.    No  jury  would 

convict  on  the  simple  statement  that  no  one  else 

could  have  got  into  the  room;    that  was  all  very 

well  in  melodrama,  but  it  would  not  do  in  court. 

[130] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

Pfeiffer  was  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  Scotland. 
There  was  still,  of  course,  the  bare  chance  that 
they  might  pick  up  an  accomplice,  and  he  had 
again  sent  out  Shaw  to  scour  the  district.  But 
there  was  nothing  to  go  upon,  unless  he  could  get 
his  description  from  some  one  who  had  seen  him, 
and  so  far  Shaw  had  failed  in  this. 

Altogether,  therefore,  McVitie  felt  that  things 
were  at  a  deadlock,  and  jealousy  for  his  profes- 
sional reputation  made  him  acutely  sensitive  to 
amateur  comment.  Vawdrey,  like  the  rest  of  the 
public,  would  not  appreciate  the  difficulties  of  the 
case,  and  would  think  that  a  detective  who  could 
not  get  evidence  enough  to  arrest  his  man  was  a 
blunderer. 

"Hope  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting,"  Vawdrey 
said  as  he  entered.  "Will  you  have  a  cigar?" 

"I'll  not  smoke,  thank  you,"  McVitie  answered 
stiffly. 

"No?    Well,  what  have  you  found  out?" 

"We're  up  against  an  expert  hand  here,"  Mc- 
Vitie began,  slowly  and  reluctantly. 

"That  means  he  hasn't  found  out  much,"  Vaw- 
drey said  to  himself. 

"The  question  is,  whose  hand?"  he  said  aloud. 

"No.     That  isn't  the  question." 

"Then  whose  was  it?  I've  laid  a  hundred  to 
one  that  I  sha'n't  know  it  when  I  see  it." 

"You've  lost." 

Vawdrey  looked  at  him  sharply.  The  good- 
natured  smile  which  was  usually  in  his  eyes  gave 

[131] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

place  to  the  keen  light  of  successful  mercantile 
shrewdness. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know,"  he  said. 

"We've  proved,"  McVitie  began,  in  his  irrita- 
ting, slow,  sing-song  voice.  "We've  proved  that 
no  one  got  in  or  out  of  either  room  during  the 
night.  Both  the  doors  were  bolted  on  the  inside 
and  were  found  bolted  this  morning." 

"Well,  well.    But  the  windows?" 

"The  windows  are  eighteen  feet  from  the 
ground.  There  is  no  rain-pipe  or  ivy  to  give  a 
foothold  and  no  ladder  was  used." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"The  gravel  is  new  and  soft.  Under  the  win- 
dows there  are  no  marks  on  it,  either  from  a  ladder 
or  from  feet." 

"Then  some  one  got  in  beforehand  and  con- 
cealed himself  in  the  rooms." 

"How  did  he  get  out?" 

"H'm!" 

"I'm  told  they  were  searched." 

"Yes,  they  were,  this  morning." 

"Before  they  were  left  vacant?" 

"Yes.     I  searched  them  myself." 

"Then,  as  no  one  got  in  or  out ' 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Vawdrey  cried  sharply, 
a  ring  almost  of  pain  in  his  voice  as  he  caught  the 
drift  of  McVitie's  story. 

"I  say,  no  one  got  in  or  out " 

"Pfeiffer!  Good  heavens!"  Vawdrey  exclaimed 
in  a  horrified  tone.  "I  can't  believe  it." 

[  132] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"From  what  you  told  me,  you  don't  know  much 
about  him,"  McVitie  answered.  His  cold  eyes 
faintly  expressed  the  grim  pleasure  of  the  logician 
who  is  driving  his  opponent  into  a  corner. 

"Know  much  about  him!  But  he's  well  known 
in  London,  goes  everywhere;  there  isn't  a  thing 
against  him." 

"As  far  as  you  have  heard." 

"Well,  yes,  as  far  as  I  have  heard.  But  those 
things  are  heard.  Surely  a  man  can't  go  on  unsus- 
pected for  years  if  he's  a  burglar.  Something 
would  be  bound  to  come  out — some  whisper." 

"Then  how  was  it  done?"  McVitie  asked  ag- 
gressively. 

Vawdrey  was  silent.  He  liked  Pfeiffer,  and  he 
had  an  idea  that  Ethel  liked  him;  but  the  case  cer- 
tainly looked  black.  And,  after  allr  what  did  he 
know  of  him  except  that  he  was  a  very  pleasant 
fellow?  What  does  one  know  of  half  the  people 
one  asks  to  dinner?  Still,  he  would  not  believe 
McVitie's  story  without  proof. 

"Are  you  absolutely  sure  about  this?"  he  asked. 

"I  am." 

"I  mean  about  the  gravel.  It's  rolled  every 
day." 

"It's  not  been  rolled  since  last  evening.  You 
can  ask  the  gardener,  and  you  can  come  and  see  it 
.for  yourself  if  you  like." 

"I  will,"  Vawdrey  said,  getting  up.  "  We  can 
take  a  lantern." 

They  went  out  together,  and  found  the  gravel 

[  133] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

as  McVitie  had  said.  The  gardener,  sent  for,  con- 
firmed that  it  had  not  been  rolled  since  the  pre- 
vious day.  When  they  had  returned  to  the  study 
and  the  door  was  shut  Vawdrey  turned  to  McVitie 
and  asked: 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"Nothing." 

"But  the  necklace  must  be  recovered." 

"H'm!  He  had  all  the  morning  to  get  rid  of 
it  and  he's  got  rid  of  it.  My  man  saw  him  undress 
and  turn  his  pockets  out;  it  wasn't  on  him  and  it 
isn't  in  his  room." 

"Then  what  has  become  of  it?" 

"It's  possible  he  may  have  hidden  it,  but  more 
likely  he  had  an  accomplice  waiting.  My  man's 
out  now,  trying  to  find  a  trace." 

"You  don't  think  it  was  taken  in  a  sudden  access 
of  temptation  on  the  spur  of  the  moment?" 

"I  did  think  so  until  I  searched  his  room.  When 
I  couldn't  find  it  I  knew  it  was  a  plot." 

"If  you  are  so  certain,  why  not  charge  him  with 
it?  We  can  have  him  in  now.  He  might  com- 
promise by  giving  it  up  if  no  steps  were  taken." 

McVitie  shook  his  head. 

"There's  no  evidence  to  convict  on  and  he  knows 
that.  He'd  only  deny  everything.  A  criminal  of 
that  class  is  the  best  actor  in  the  world." 

"But  some  effort  must  be  made." 

"No.  Let  him  think  he  isn't  suspected  and 
we'll  shadow  him.  In  case  he  has  hidden  it  he'll 

[134] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

be  watched  here,  and  in  London  we  can  find  out 
what  company  he  keeps." 

"Bah!  It's  perfectly  detestable!"  Vawdrey 
cried. 

McVitie  took  no  notice  of  his  outburst  and  went 
on  in  an  even  tone : 

"You  can  give  out  that  we're  on  the  track  and 
expect  to  make  an  arrest  in  a  day  or  two.  Head 
Pfeiffer  away  from  thinking  he's  suspected  or 
watched.  I'll  leave  to-morrow,  but  my  man  will 
stay  about  here." 

Vawdrey  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
despair. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "if  that's  what  has  to  be. 
I  should  like  to  get  rid  of  Pfeiffer,  though." 

"There's  no  harm  in  that.  If  the  diamonds  are 
hidden,  he'll  have  to  fetch  them;  and  if  not,  the 
sooner  he  reaches  London  the  sooner  we'll  have 
a  chance  of  learning  who  his  friends  are." 

Vawdrey  threw  his  cigar  into  the  grate  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room.  He  was  very  much 
distressed,  for  he  had  always  liked  Pfeiffer  and  he 
had  noticed  Ethel's  inclination  toward  him  with- 
out more  displeasure  than  a  father  usually  feels  in 
such  circumstances.  But  he  was  too  clear-headed 
to  disbelieve  McVitie's  story,  which  brought  the 
theft  home  to  Pfeiffer  with  simple  and  logical 
exactness.  If  McVitie  had  been  a  flowery  talker 
he  would  have  doubted  his  conclusions,  but  his  dis- 
passionate coldness  carried  conviction  with  his. 
words. 

,[135] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

In  a  last  effort  to  find  a  breach  in  the  argument 
he  said: 

"You  are  absolutely  sure  of  your  facts — that  the 
doors  were  bolted  and  that  no  entry  could  have 
been  made  through  the  windows?" 

"I  am.  If  you  had  not  searched  the  rooms  this 
morning  before  they  were  left  it  might  have  been 
that  some  one  was  hidden  and  got  away  later." 

"I  searched  them  myself,  so  I  know  that's  not 
right.  Besides,  there  are  precious  few  places  where 
a  man  could  hide  in  them." 

"Just  so." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you're  right.  But  it's  terribly 
upsetting;  and,  of  course,  unless  you  can  bring  it 
home  to  him  and  recover  the  necklace  it's  not  very 
satisfactory  from  my  point  of  view." 

"I'm  sorry,  you're  dissatisfied,"  McVitie  said, 
with  a  flash  of  hostility.  "I've  done  as  much  as 
was  possible." 

"Oh,  quite  so.  But  you  must  follow  the  matter 
up;  no  expense  is  to  be  spared.  And  let  me  know 
what  you  find  out." 

McVitie  rose  and  took  his  leave  without  further 
remark.  On  the  whole,  he  felt  that  he  had  ade- 
quately defended  his  reputation  and  had  kept  Vaw- 
drey,  as  one  of  the  public,  in  his  place. 

Vawdrey  was  left  alone  with  his  very  unpleasant 
thoughts.  It  was  odious  to  him  to  have  a  thief  in 
his  house,  the  more  so  when  it  was  a  man  whom 
he  had  trusted  and  liked  and  had  often  helped. 
He  knew  that  Pfeiffer  was  not  well  off,  and  from 

[136] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

time  to  time  he  made  a  point  of  giving  him  orders 
in  stocks,  so  that  he  might  get  a  share  of  the  com- 
mission. Once  he  had  lent  him  two  hundred 
pounds. 

And  now,  if  McVitie  was  right,  the  man  had 
committed  a  theft,  not  on  a  sudden  temptation,  but 
deliberately.  He  was  a  practised  thief,  a  Raffles,  a 
scoundrel  who  used  his  position  as  a  gentleman  for 
the  purpose  of  robbing  his  friends.  It  was  horri- 
ble— horrible — and  Vawdrey  made  up  his  mind  to 
seek  some  pretext  for  getting  him  out  of  the  house 
as  soon  as  possible. 


[137] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TLJALF  an  hour  passed.  Vawdrey  was  still 
•*•  •!•  thinking  over  McVitie's  story  when  there  was 
a  tap  at  the  door  and  Pfeiffer  entered,  saying: 

"May  I  come  in?" 

Vawdrey  started.  He  had  forgotten  that 
Pfeiffer  had  asked  to  speak  to  him;  but  now,  in  a 
flash,  he  guessed  the  reason.  He  wanted  to  con- 
fess. Then,  after  all,  he  had  taken  the  necklace 
under  stress  of  temptation,  and  he  wanted  to  make 
restitution.  His  evident  nervousness  confirmed 
the  idea,  and  Vawdrey  said  in  a  voice  which  was 
not  unkindly: 

"Oh,  come  in.  Do  you  want  to  tell  me  some- 
thing?" 

Pfeiffer  sat  down,  saying  in  a  hesitating  tone : 

"Well,  yes,  I "   " 

"Thank  heaven,  he's  going  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it,"  Vawdrey  thought.  "I'll  get  him  out 
somehow  if  I  can.  It's  awful;  but  I  suppose  he 
was  tempted  beyond  his  powers  and  was  caught 
in  a  weak  moment." 

"Yes?"  he  said.     "Let's  hear  all  about  it." 

Pfeiffer  still  hesitated,  and  Vawdrey,  to  en- 
courage him,  added : 

"Look  here,  Willie,  I've  been  a  good  friend  to 
you  before  and  you'll  find  me  a  good  friend  again. 
If  there's  any  way  through  I'll  try  to  help  you." 

[138] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"You're  awfully  kind,"  Pfeiffer  broke  out. 
"You  have  been  a  good  friend;  but  I  haven't  asked 
you  for  anything  so  big  before,  and  I  admit  I'm  in 
a  devilish  funk." 

Vawdrey's  face  was  very  grave,  but  his  bitter- 
ness against  Pfeiffer  had  vanished.  It  was  true 
that  what  he  had  done  was  inxecusable — far  too 
serious  to  be  overlooked — and  he  would  have  to 
leave  England  and  begin  life  again  in  another 
country.  But,  in  spite  of  that,  Vawdrey's  pity  was 
aroused,  for  he  read  in  the  pale  face  and  halting 
words  the  signs  of  a  genuine  repentance.  Life  had 
taught  him  to  make  large  allowances  for  a  man 
who  is  tempted;  he  knew  how  easy  it  was  to  be 
wise  after  the  event,  to  be  strong  when  the  use  of 
strength  no  longer  avails.  It  was  not  in  him  to 
add  to  the  punishment  for  a  crime  of  temporary 
aberration,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  burden  Pfeiffer 
with  homilies  and  reproaches.  On  the  contrary,  if 
it  were  possible,  he  would  help  him  to  restore  the 
necklace  and  get  out  of  the  country  quietly. 

"You'd  better  get  it  over,"  he  said,  after  wait- 
ing for  a  minute.  "I  can't  do  anything  unless  you 
speak  out." 

"Well,  I — as  you  know,  I'm  infernally  hard  up 
and  always  have  been ;  so  I  needn't  go  into  that. 
All  the  same,  I  feel  bound  to  say  that  I  haven't 
looked  on  this  as  a  relief  scheme,  so  please  don't 
accuse  me  of  that."' 

Vawdrey  leant  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked 
at  him  sternly.  If  the  man  was  going  to  blither 

[139] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

about  excuses  he  had  done  with  him.  Confessions 
which  were  worth  anything  did  not  begin  on  that 
note. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"I  mean,  I'm  not  a  fortune-hunter.  And  in  ask- 
ing your  permission  to  marry  Ethel " 

"What!"  Vawdrey  shouted.  The  color  of  his 
face  had  deepened  to  a  dull  red,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  Pfeiffer  with  a  threatening  glare. 
Pfeiffer's  words  so  shocked  him  that  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  believe  that  he  had  heard  aright. 

Before  the  sudden  change  from  friendly  en- 
couragement to  hostility  Pfeiffer's  nervousness  re- 
turned upon  him  with  redoubled  force.  But  he 
was  not  lacking  in  courage,  and  the  expression  of 
fury  and  disgust  on  Vawdrey's  face  spurred  him 
to  make  an  effort  in  his  own  defence. 

"I  am  asking  your  consent  to  marry  Ethel," 
he  said,  drawing  himself  up  stiffly. 

Vawdrey's  hands  clenched,  and  his  mouth  fell 
half  open  in  a  snarl  of  rage.  For  a  moment  he 
paused,  because  he  would  not  speak  until  he  had 
full  control  of  himself.  Then,  very  slowly  and 
carefully,  he  said: 

"You  are  asking  my  consent  to  marry  my  daugh- 
ter? You  have  the  impudence  to  come  here  to- 
night and  ask  me  that?  Good  God!  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  you." 

A  quick  flush  of  anger  crossed  Pfeiffer's  face, 
and  he  sprang  up  and  backward  as  if  Vawdrey  had 
smitten  him  on  the  cheek. 

[140] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say,"  Vawdrey  answered, 
rubbing  in  every  word  like  salt  into  a  wound.  "I've 
liked  you  and  I've  trusted  you ;  and  I've  found  it 
hard  to  believe  ill  of  you.  But  this  caps  every- 
thing." 

Pfeiffer's  rage  waxed  still  hotter. 

"You  intend  to  insult  me?"  he  said.  "Very 
well.  Your  age,  and  the  fact  that  I  am  a  guest  in 
your  house,  will  protect  you  from  punishment,  as 
you  perfectly  well  know.  But,  if  I  can't  knock  you 
down,  I  can  say  what  I  think  of  you.  There's  only 
one  word  for  you — you're  a  cad,  and  one  of  the 
vilest." 

Vawdrey  was  about  to  retort  when  Pfeiffer 
broke  in,  his  voice  shaken  with  passion. 

"Who  are  you?  Perhaps  you've  forgotten,  but 
other  people  haven't,  and  I  promise  you  they  won't. 
You're  a  working  man — a  fellow  who  ought  to  be 
carrying  a  hod — and  because  you've  been  lucky  in 
speculating  and  swindling  you  tell  me  I'm  impudent 
for  wishing  to  marry  your  daughter!  Well,  if 
you're  looking  for  a  duke  I  advise  you  to  learn 
manners  first,  or  he  won't  swallow  you." 

Vawdrey  stood  up.  Pfeiffer's  foolish  taunts 
failed  to  rouse  him,  for  he  was  too  sick  and  dis- 
gusted to  lose  his  temper. 

"Have  you  finished?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  Pfeiffer  shouted. 

"Then  listen  to  me.     When  you  came  into  the 

[141] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

room  I  thought  you  had  something  very  different 
to  say,  and  I  was  prepared  to  help  you  as  far  as  I 
was  able.  I  was  mistaken,  as  I  have  been  mistaken 
all  along  about  you.  You  have  deceived  me  and 
every  one  else  so  successfully  that  I  daresay  you 
are  clever  enough  to  get  off  now,  though  I  hope 
you  won't.  All  that  I  need  do  is  to  ask  you  to 
leave  here  by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning." 

Pfeiffer's  hands  were  itching  to  hit  Vawdrey, 
for  his  insulting  words  cut  him  to  the  quick;  but 
he  restrained  himself  and  answered  more  calmly: 

"I  shall  certainly  do  so.  I  wouldn't  stay  here 
to-night  if  I  could  avoid  it.  It  may  surprise  you, 
but  I  don't  care  to  be  in  the  house  of  a  man  who 
has  not  the  common  instincts  of  decency." 

"Nor  do  I,"  Vawdrey  shot  at  him  glimly. 

Pfeiffer  left  the  room  and  went  to  find  Ethel, 
who  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall.  He  was 
possessed  by  one  thought — with  or  without  her  for- 
tune he  would  marry  her.  That  was  the  essential 
thing,  and  at  any  cost  he  must  achieve  it.  The 
loss  of  the  money  would  be  a  blow,  a  very  serious 
one;  but  that  should  not  stop  him.  Even  if  he 
had  not  cared  for  her  he  would  at  that  moment 
have  married  her  for  the  sake  of  revenging  him- 
self upon  her  father,  for  it  was  the  only  way  in 
which  he  could  repay  him  amply.  As  he  crossed 
the  hall  he  braced  himself  for  the  interview  with 
her.  He  knew  that  it  would  require  all  his  tact 
and  power  of  persuasion;  and  if  he  was  to  succeed 
he  must  hold  himself  well  in  hand. 

[142] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

She  looked  up  as  she  heard  his  step,  and  the 
color  left  her  face  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  heavy 
frown  on  his  forehead.  She  sprang  toward  him, 
holding  out  her  hands  and  crying: 

"Dear!    What  has  happened?" 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  sofa, 
saying: 

"Darling,  I've  had  a  very  unpleasant  ten  min- 
utes. I  can't  very  well  tell  you  what  happened, 
because  if  I  did  I  should  have  to  say  things  about 
your  father  which  you  could  not  listen  to." 

"Willie!" 

"As  far  as  I  can  gather,  though  he  did  not  put 
it  into  words,  he  has  more  ambitious  ideas  for  you, 
and  he  was  polite  enough  to  say  that  he  regarded 
my  proposal  as  impudent." 

"Father  said  that?  Oh,  you  must  have  mis- 
understood him.  He  couldn't  have  meant  such  a 
thing.  Why,  he  likes  you — I  know  he  does;  and 
he's  often  said  I'm  to  marry  whom  I  like  so  long 
as  he's  respectable." 

"Then  he  seems  to  have  changed  his  mind.  He 
insulted  me  intentionally  and  quite  needlessly,  for, 
if  he  wanted  to  refuse  his  consent,  it  was  just  as 
easy  to  do  it  civilly.  Instead  of  that,  he  told  me 
to  clear  out  of  the  house  to-morrow  morning  by 
the  first  train." 

The  tears  sprang  into  Ethel's  eyes,  and  she  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  crying: 

"How  could  he !    How  could  he !" 

[143] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Then,  drawing  away  from  him,  she  added  in  a 
calmer  voice : 

"Oh,  Willie,  you  must  have  misunderstood 
him." 

"He  took  care  to  make  that  impossible." 

"Then  what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Do?  I  shall  leave  before  breakfast.  And  if 
you'll  come  with  me,  dearest,  I  sha'n't  much  regret 
what  has  happened." 

Ethel  left  off  dabbing  her  eyes  with  her  handker- 
chief and  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  must  think. 
It's  all  so  extraordinary.  If  father  was  a  cross, 
curmudgeony  person  I  could  understand  it ;  but  he 
isn't.  He's  always  perfectly  sweet  to  me." 

"I  can't  make  it  out,  either.  When  I  went  in 
he  was  awfully  nice,  but  directly  I  mentioned  you 
he  turned  on  me  like  a  savage,  and  said  he  thought 
I'd  come  for  something  different.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  he  expected  me  to  ask  for." 

If  Ethel  had  been  stupid,  or  had  been  on  less 
friendly  terms  with  her  father,  she  might  have 
yielded  to  Pfeiffer's  entreaties  and  eloped  with  him. 
But  she  was  no  fool;  and  as  she  thought  over  his 
story,  she  felt  sure  that  there  was  a  mistake  some- 
where which  could  be  put  right.  She  would  see 
her  father  and  ask  him  what  had  happened  before 
she  decided  what  to  do. 

"I  shall  go  to  him,"  she  said  at  last,  getting  up. 
"There  must  be  some  reason,  and  I'm  entitled  to 
know  what  it  is.  Wait  here." 

[  144] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

Pfeiffer  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  He  certainly 
did  not  want  her  to  see  her  father  just  then,  when 
it  was  important  that  his  own  influence  should  be 
paramount. 

"No,  don't  go,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  a  bit  of  use, 
darling.  Don't  go,  I  beg  of  you.  Don't  let's  waste 
the  short  time  we've  got.  Give  me  a  chance  to 
plead  with  you  for  myself  while  I  can." 

She  touched  his  sleeve,  saying  very  tenderly: 
"You  needn't  do  that." 

"Then,  will  you  come  with  me  to-morrow?"  he 
asked  eagerly.  "Dearest,  you'll  be  horribly  poor, 
but  we'll  manage  somehow,  and  I'll  try  to  make  it 
up  to  you  by  loving  you  ever  so  much  more  for 
your  pluck  and  sweetness.  I  can't  let  you  go,  I 
can't,  I  can't." 

"I  must  see  father,"  she  persisted  gently.  "If 
he  has  any  real  reason  against  it  he  will  tell  me  and 
I  will  judge  for  myself." 

Pfeiffer  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  make  further 
attempts  to  prevent  her.  She  had  a  decided  will, 
and  he  knew  from  her  voice  that  her  mind  was 
made  up. 

"Very  well,'"  he  said  in  a  quieter  tone.  "I'll 
wait  here  for  you." 

She  put  her  face  up  to  his  and  he  bent  down 
and  kissed  her.  Then  she  crossed  the  hall  and 
opened  the  study  door. 

Pfeiffer  watched  her  go. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  muttered.  "That's  the  last 
chance  gone.  If  only  I  could  have  kept  her  here." 

[1451 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  He  had  fallen 
into  the  depths  of  depression,  for  he  knew  that 
Ethel  was  very  fond  of  her  father  and  mother  and 
that  she  would  shrink  from  running  counter  to 
them  in  so  serious  a  matter.  He  doubted  whether 
her  love  was  strong  enough  to  make  her  do  so; 
and,  after  what  had  passed,  it  was  impossible  for 
Vawdrey  to  give  his  consent  even  in  the  most 
grudging  form.  If  Ethel  married  him  it  meant  a 
definite  quarrel  with  her  parents. 


[146] 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Ethel  entered  the  study  Vawdrey  was 
writing  a  letter.  He  looked  up  quickly,  and 
she  noted  the  stern  lines  of  his  mouth  and  the 
shadow  in  his  eyes.  She  went  to  the  back  of  the 
big  writing-table  and  stood  there  facing  him  with 
her  hands  resting  upon  it.  He  leant  back  and 
looked  at  her,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "why  have  you  refused  your 
consent  to  Willie?" 

For  a  moment  Vawdrey  did  not  answer.  He 
was  very  sore  at  the  thought  that  a  scoundrel  like 
Pfeiffer  had  wormed  his  way  into  her  heart  and 
was  to  darken  her  life.  Such  efforts  had  been  made 
to  shelter  her  from  unhappiness;  but  she,  no  less 
than  any  other,  was  to  learn  the  meaning  of 
tragedy. 

At  length  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  was  not  quite 
steady:  "Little  daughter,  you  must  try  and  forget. 
It  is  a  lesson  which  I  hoped  you  would  never  have 
to  learn." 

"I  can't  take  that  answer,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
must  know  your  reason  for  turning  against  him. 
He  says  it's  because  you  want  me  to  make  a  bril- 
liant match,  but  I  don't  believe  that." 

Vawdrey  looked  at  her. 

"Won't  you  trust  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  do.    And  yet  I  can't  in  this." 

[147] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Dear,  the  reason  isn't  mine  to  give — yet. 
Soon,  I  hope,  there  will  be  no  need  for  secrecy." 

Ethel  shook  her  head,  and  a  slow  smile  touched 
her  lips  as  she  answered : 

"You  can't  do  it.  It  isn't  fair  and  straight  to 
ask  me  to  break  with  Willie,  to  agree  in  turning 
him  out  of  the  house,  without  giving  a  reason. 
There  is  one,  and  I'm  entitled  to  know  it." 

"There  is  one,  and  I  think  you're  entitled  to 
know  it;  but  at  the  moment  I  can't  tell  it." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together,  the  first  sign  of 
agitation  which  she  had  given,  and  turned  away. 
After  a  minute's  thought,  and  a  hasty  brushing 
away  of  the  tears  which  had  gathered  in  her  eyes, 
she  faced  her  father  again  and  said : 

"Father,  you  must  tell  me.  I  have  promised  to 
marry  him,  and  I  will  not  break  my  promise  with- 
out a  good  reason.  If  you — if  you  won't  tell  me 
I  am  bound  to  keep  it,  and  I  shall  keep  it." 

Vawdrey  was  a  shrewd  man  and  a  good  judge 
of  character,  and  he  knew  his  own  daughter  too 
well  to  deceive  himself  about  her  resolution.  Un- 
less he  told  her  what  had  been  discovered  she 
would  marry  Pfeiffer,  and  the  additional  evidence 
which  McVitie  was  trying  to  get  might  come  too 
late  to  prevent  her. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  you  will  marry 
him  at  once?" 

"Yes.  He  has  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to-mor- 
row morning.  He  says  you  have  made  it  impos- 

[148] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

sible  for  him  to  stay  here,  or  to  see  you  again,  and 
he  wants  to  take  me  away." 

Vawdrey's  mouth  hardened.  He  was  quick  to 
catch  the  drift  of  Pfeiffer's  suggestion:  Ethel  was 
to  be  a  hostage. 

"And  would  you  do  that,"  he  asked,  "in  the 
face  of  my  express  disapproval?" 

The  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  again. 

"Oh,  don't  make  it  harder  for  me,"  she  cried. 
"Can't  you  see  it's  breaking  my  heart  to  vex  you?" 

"Why  not  postpone  everything  for  a  couple  of 
months  ?  In  the  ordinary  way,  you  wouldn't  have 
been  married  sooner." 

"I  can't  do  that  after  what  has  occurred  be- 
tween you  and  Willie.  You  have  insulted  him  and 
turned  him  out  of  the  house,  and  either  I  must 
stand  by  him  now  or  break  with  him.  If  I  hold 
off  for  two  months  he  would  see  that  I  doubted 
him — doubted  him  just  when  he  wanted  help.  It's 
impossible." 

Vawdrey  appreciated  the  argument  and  saw  that 
he  must  tell  her  what  McVitie  had  discovered. 
He  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  her  toward  him, 
and  she  knelt  down  beside  his  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  hurt  you,  dearest,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing very  reluctantly.  "I  think  most  fathers  would 
refuse  to  tell  you;  but  your  mother  and  I  have 
always  brought  you  up  to  judge  for  yourself  and 
have  always  trusted  you." 

"I  know  you  have." 

"If  Pfeiffer  had  come  to  me  yesterday  I  should 


have  given  my  consent.  He  is — no  one  in  particu- 
lar, but,  then,  we  aren't,  either;  and  I  don't  care 
a  button  whether  you  marry  a  title  or  not  so  long 
as  you  are  happy.  He  is  very  short  of  money  and 
you  will  be  very  rich,  so  I  might  have  suspected 
him,  as  I've  suspected  plenty  of  others,  of  fortune- 
hunting.  But  I  didn't,  because  I  liked  him  and 
thought  him  straight  and  honest." 

"He  is  straight  and  honest." 

"That's  where  I've  got  to  hurt  you,  dear.  He 
is  neither." 

"Father!" 

The  cry  was  full  of  incredulity  and  of  suffering. 

"I,  less  than  anybody,  suspected  him  of  having 
a  hand  in  this  wretched  robbery,  but  the  facts  are 
against  him." 

Ethel  rose  slowly  from  her  knees  and  stood 
looking  at  her  father.  Her  arms  hung  straight, 
her  body  was  motionless,  her  face  frozen  into  a 
tragic  expression  of  amazement.  The  moment  was 
filled  with  the  poised  expectancy  of  drama,  the 
almost  unbearable  excitement  which  radiates  from 
the  actors  while  a  vital  decision  is  taking  shape  in 
the  mind.  In  the  theatre  such  moments  are  only 
possible  when  the  playwright  is  great  enough  to 
efface  himself  and  to  make  the  audience  forget 
that  the  scene  has  been  written  and  rehearsed. 
Like  the  playwright,  Vawdrey  knew  the  words 
which  should  come  next.  For  had  he  not  studied 
his  daughter,  watched  her,  trained  her  from  child- 
hood? Yet,  unlike  the  playwright,  he  did  not  feel 
[150] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

certain  that  the  expected  words  would  come, 
True,  he  had  taught  her  the  value  of  facts,  and  to 
base  her  judgment  upon  them  without  being  se- 
duced by  sentiment  or  inclination.  But  had  he 
ever  reached  and  influenced  the  core  of  feminine 
nature — that  capacity  for  refusing  to  believe  ill 
of  a  lover?  Would  she  accept  his  statement  and 
his  proofs?  Or  would  she  turn  from  them  un- 
interested, secure  in  the  belief  that  one  man  in  the 
world  was  incapable  of  infamy? 

He  waited,  scarcely  breathing;  and  when  the 
answer  came  he  was  not  altogether  surprised.  For 
what  is  education  when  confronted  with  instinct? 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  slowly. 

"I  wondered  if  you  would,"  he  could  not  help 
saying. 

"I  don't  believe  it.    Do  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  continued  to  keep  her  eyes  on  his,  and  her 
breast  heaved  with  gathering  indignation  as  she 
retorted : 

"Is  that  what  the  best  detective  in  Edinburgh 
thinks  he  has  found  out?" 

"He  has  satisfied  me  that  he  is  right." 

"Oh,  it's  too  horrible,"  she  cried. 

Then,  controlling  herself  again,  she  went  on: 

"So,  if  I  marry  him,  it  means " 

"Ostracism.  And,  worse  than  that,  it  means 
that,  too  late,  you  will  come  to  believe  it  too." 

"If  I  thought  that  it  would  be  easy.     But  I 

[151] 


don't,  and  I  can't  throw  him  over  just  because 
other  people  do." 

"Am  I  'other  people'  ?"  Vawdrey  pleaded. 

She  drew  nearer  to  him  and  put  her  hands  in 
his,  saying: 

"Father,  I  can't  argue,  I  can't  explain;  but  I 
am  perfectly  certain  that  Willie  is  as  innocent  of 
this  as  you  are.  Am  I,  at  the  time  when  every- 
body is  against  him,  when  he  most  wants  help,  to 
leave  him?" 

Vawdrey  gripped  her  hands  tightly.  There  had 
never  been  any  make-believe  between  him  and 
Ethel,  and  his  plain  Yorkshire  mind  was  revolted 
by  the  idea  that  any  end  justified  deception.  Smart 
and  frivolous  as  she  might  seem  to  others,  he  knew 
that  she  had  his  capable  brains  and  his  point  of 
view  in  affairs;  and  he  could  not  lie  to  her. 

"If  you  ask  me  as  your  father,"  he  said,  "I  say 
throw  him  over  at  once.  If  you  ask  me  as  an  im- 
partial man,  who  likes  playing  the  game  without 
ever  thinking  whether  it's  worth  the  candle,  I  say 
wait.  Whatever  adviser  you  may  consult  he  will 
not  say  more  than  that  you  know  the  position  now, 
and  Pfeiffer  is  bound  to  clear  himself  before  he 
can  ask  you  to  marry  him." 

Vawdrey,  speaking  in  perfect  honesty,  made  a 
far  stronger  appeal  than  if  he  had  taken  refuge  in 
unqualified  prohibition.  He  won  her,  and  after  a 
minute's  thought  she  said : 

"Very  well.    There  shall  be  no  engagement  for 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

the  present.  I  don't  believe  it  and  I  am  not  afraid, 
nor  is  he,  and  we  can  wait  for  a  time." 

"Then  we'll  leave  it  at  that,"  Vawdrey  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Best  of  fathers,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  answered,  returning  her 
smile.  "The  best  of  fathers  would  have  persuaded 
you  to  put  Pfeiffer  out  of  your  thoughts.  Because, 
dear  child,"  he  added  gravely,  "it  must  come  to 
that." 

"I  can't  believe  it.  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall, 
even  if  they  send  him  to  prison." 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  him?" 

"What  you've  told  me." 

"No.  You  must  be  very  careful.  You'd  better 
say  the  engagement  must  be  hung  up  for  a  time 
without  giving  a  definite  reason." 

"Can  I  do  that  fairly?" 

"I  think  so.  Tell  him  to  ask  again  in  six  months' 
time.  If  McVitie  is  right,  he  will  know  what  you 
mean  and  will  sheer  off.  If  not — well,  he  can 
prove  it." 

"I  ought  to  tell  him." 

"Why?  Of  course,  after  what  I  said,  he  can 
see  he's  found  out;  that's  why  he  tried  to  make 
you  run  away  with  him.  But  I  don't  want  actually 
to  accuse  him  until  McVitie  is  in  a  position  to  prove 
what  he  says.  It  might  get  us  into  a  disagreeable 
mess." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  reflec- 

[153] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

tion.  "I  will  only  tell  him  there  is  an  obstacle, 
which  will  disappear  in  a  short  time." 

"Yes,  put  it  that  way." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  kissed  him.  Then 
she  went  into  the  hall,  where  Pfeiffer  was  waiting 
for  her. 

As  she  came  slowly  toward  him  he  turned  and 
faced  her.  She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  without  a 
word,  for  she  was  at  the  point  of  bursting  into 
tears. 

"Well?"  he  asked  in  a  dull  voice. 

She  forced  herself  to  raise  her  eyes  to  his  as  she 
said:  "Dear,  you  must  go  away.  But  only  for  a 
time." 

"Why?"  he  demanded  with  sudden  passion. 
"What  reason  does  he  give?  Has  he  persuaded 
you  to  throw  me  over  for  the  sake  of — oh !  I  can't 
believe  it  of  you." 

"I  can't  tell  you  all  father  said;  but  you  mustn't 
think  badly  of  him  or  of  me.  Just  for  the  moment 
things  are  in  a  knot.  You  must  be  content  with 
that  and  with  knowing  that  it  will  all  come  right 
very  soon." 

"How  can  I?  Why  have  you  and  he  suddenly 
turned  against  me?  You're  keeping  back  some- 
thing. If  there's  anything  against  me  I  ought  to 
be  told." 

"I  am  keeping  back  something  —  something 
which,  if  it  were  true,  you  would  not  need  to  ask. 
But  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is.  You  must  just  trust 
me  and  believe  that — that  I  love  you  always." 

[154] 


WHAT  JAMES  McVITIE  DISCOVERED 

He  bent  forward  and  caught  her  hands  in  his. 

"Come  with  me  to-morrow,"  he  pleaded. 

She  shook  her  head  gently. 

"No.  I  want  you  to  go  right  away — go  abroad 
or  somewhere  till  the  winter.  Then — come  back 
to  me." 

"What's  the  use  of  that?"  he  cried  roughly. 
"Oh,  I  know  what  will  happen.  Everything  will 
be  done  to  get  you  away  from  me  and  make  you 
forget.  Day  after  day  you'll  be  under  pressure — 
pressure  from  every  one,  from  your  father  and 
mother,  and  your  friends — and  soon  you'll  be 
brought  into  line.  Oh,  I  know.  We've  all  seen  it 
scores  of  times." 

"That's  not  just,"  she  said,  with  a  rising  flush 
in  her  cheeks.  "If  you  think  I  shall  forget  you  so 
easily  you  cannot  have  much  faith  in  me." 

"I  have,  indeed  I  have,"  he  cried.  "But  I  want 
to  save  you  from  this  struggle.  What  can  be  the 
object  of  it  except  to  make  you  forget  me?  What 
can  it  lead  to?  Nothing.  If  you  stand  firm  we 
are  only  just  where  we  are  now.  Your  father  won't 
give  his  consent  any  the  more.  Come  with  me 
now,  dearest.  Come  now  and  I  swear  you  sha'n't 
repent  it." 

"I  can't.  You  must  take  ,things  as  they  are. 
Surely,  if  you  care,  it  is  not  a  great  deal  to  ask." 

"If  I  care!"  he  broke  out. 

She  stood  up,  looking  at  him  with  sad,  tired 
eyes.  He  saw  that  she  was  resolute  and  that  he 
was  forced  to  accept  her  decision. 

[155] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Am  I  not  to  see  you?"  he  asked. 

"Later." 

"But,  at  least,  you  will  write?" 

"Yes.    I  will  write.    I  must  go  now.    Good-by." 

She  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  Then  she  released  herself 
and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs.  At  the  top  she 
turned,  and  their  eyes  met  in  a  long  glance  of 
farewell. 


[156] 


BOOK  IV 
WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 


CHAPTER  I 

pHE  next  morning,  while  Pfeiffer  was  motor- 
•*•  ing  to  the  station  to  catch  the  south-bound 
express,  Arthur  Drury  was  breakfasting  at  his 
chambers  in  Half  Moon  Street  after  a  night  spent 
in  the  train.  He  had  found  a  letter  awaiting  him, 
which  said  that  a  meeting  of  the  underwriters  con- 
cerned in  the  insurance  of  the  necklace  was  ar- 
ranged for  half-past  ten. 

When  he  reached  the  office  most  of  them  were 
already  in  the  partners'  room.  Ten  firms,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  own,  were  interested  in  the  policy ;  and 
Mr.  Porton,  of  Porton  &  Paver,  his  firm's  solici- 
tors, was  also  present.  From  the  circumstances  of 
the  case  the  claim  was  regarded  with  suspicion, 
and  there  was  a  strong  feeling  that  it  should  be 
resisted  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so.  Mr.  Hinchin, 
the  senior  partner  of  Hinchin  &  Company,  with 
whom  Drury  worked,  greeted  him  none  too 
warmly. 

"Well,  Drury,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  nice  affair  to 
be  in — a  very  nice  affair.  One  premium  paid,  and 
a  claim  in  full,  I  suppose,  for  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  Let's  hear  all  about  it.  You  know  every 
one  present." 

Drury  nodded  to  the  others  and  sat  down.  He 
felt  very  uncomfortable;  for,  in  addition  to  the 
loss  which  fell  on  himself,  he  knew  that  some  re- 

[159] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

sentment  would  be  shown  at  such  a  heavy  claim 
following  so  closely  upon  the  issue  of  a  policy.  Of 
course,  such  things  did  happen  occasionally;  but 
they  were  not  accepted  with  cheerfulness,  and  he 
could  see  that  everybody  was  in  a  bad  temper 
about  it. 

"Fire  away,"  Hinchin  said,  rapping  on  the 
table  with  a  pencil.  "Tell  us  how  it  happened." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  very  much,  because  I  left 
early  yesterday  morning,  as  soon  as  I  heard  about 
it.  We  were  staying  with  Vawdrey,  the  iron- 
master, at  Gains." 

"Where's  Gains?"  snapped  a  waspish  little  man 
named  Garrod. 

"In  Scotland,  near  Montrose.  Vawdrey  has 
just  bought  the  place  and  asked  several  people  up 
for  the  shooting." 

"Who  was  there?"  Hinchin  asked. 

"Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Benyon,  myself,  Fraser, 
a  man  named  Pfeiffer  who  is  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, a  Miss  Carew,  and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing. 
It  was  a  pretty  gay  party,  and  a  lot  of  rotting 
went  on.  And  the  day  before  yesterday  we  got 
up  a  hoax  for  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  and  hid  her 
necklace." 

"Who  hid  it?" 

"Fraser  and  I.  We  tipped  the  maid  and  got 
hold  of  the  necklace  before  dinner.  There  was  a 
bit  of  a  clamor,  and  then,  of  course,  we  found  it." 

"What  are  you  telling  us  this  for?  Has  it  any 
bearing  on  the  theft?" 

[160] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"It  may  have  put  it  into  one  of  the  servants' 
heads.  I  thought  I'd  better  mention  it." 

"Well,  go  on." 

"After  dinner  there  was  dancing,  and  it  was 
about  one  o'clock  when  we  went  to  bed.  The  next 
morning — that  was  yesterday — I  was  going  down 
to  breakfast  when  I  met  Vawdrey,  and  he  told  me 
the  necklace  had  been  stolen." 

"Any  particulars?" 

"Only  that  it  had  disappeared  in  the  night.  I 
know  she  had  it  on  when  she  went  up  to  bed." 

"What  is  being  done — do  you  know?" 

"Vawdrey  wired  to  Edinburgh  for  a  detective. 
I  saw  him  at  Montrose  on  his  way." 

"And  that's  all  you  know?" 

"Yes." 

"Seems  to  me  we  want  further  information," 
one  of  the  men  said.  "Hadn't  we  better  send  a 
trusty  man  up?" 

"Who's  the  detective?"  Hinchin  asked. 

"McVitie." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  Quite  a  good  man,"  some 
one  said.  "But  we  ought  to  get  in  touch  with 
him." 

There  was  a  pause.  No  one  seemed  to  have  any 
further  suggestion  to  offer,  and  the  meeting  gave 
signs  of  beginning  to  break  up.  One  or  two  men 
rose  from  their  chairs.  Suddenly,  Garrod  rapped 
out  a  question  to  Drury. 

"Who's  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing?" 
[161] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

The  tone  was  peremptory  and  not  very  civil,  and 
Drury  flushed  up  as  he  answered: 

"Oh,  she's  a  lady  well  known  in  society.  She's 
an  Australian,  a  widow." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"She  looks  about  thirty-two  or  thirty-three." 

"An  Australian.  When  did  she  come  to 
London?" 

"I  met  her  first  about  a  year  ago.  I  don't  know 
how  long  she's  been  here — not  long,  I  think." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  her?" 

The  flush  on  Drury's  face  deepened  and  his 
temper  rose. 

"I've  told  you  what  I  know,"  he  answered. 

"Yes — that  she  comes  from  Australia.  That's 
a  large  place.  Who  was  her  husband?  Where 
does  she  get  her  income?" 

"I'm  damned  if  I  know,"  Drury  answered 
rudely.  "I'm  not  a  detective,  and  I  haven't 
found  it  usual  to  employ  one  to  inquire  into  a 
lady's  antecedents.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  she  is 
a  lady." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Hinchin  interposed.  "But  Garrod's 
quite  right  in  asking  about  her.  At  the  time  we 
underwrote  this  jewelry  we  didn't  get  much  to  go 
upon,  you  remember." 

"You  got  a  valuation  and  a  banker's  reference 
and  a  personal  reference." 

"Of  course  we  did  or  we  shouldn't  have  taken  it. 
But  I  raised  the  point  with  you  at  the  time  that 
she  was  rather  an  unknown  quantity." 

"And  I  told  you  you  couldn't  do  business  at  all 
[162] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

if  you  wanted  everybody's  family  history  for  gen- 
erations back." 

"Are  we  to  take  it,  then,  that  you  don't  know 
anything  about  her?"  Garrod  asked. 

His  rasping  voice  infuriated  Drury;  but  he 
controlled  his  tongue  and  answered  sharply. 

"I  know  quite  enough  to  guarantee  her.  She's 
an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  in  my  opinion  she's 
above  suspicion  of  any  sort.  She  goes  to  some  of 
the  best  houses  in  London  and  is  very  popular. 
As  to  her  means,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  she  lives 
in  a  flat  in  Mount  Street  rented  at  six  hundred  a 
year;  and,  besides  this  necklace,  she  has  other 
jewelry  insured  for  nearly  fifteen  thousand." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  gets  her  income 
from?" 

"No.  And  I  shouldn't  be  impertinent  enough 
to  ask." 

Garrod  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  crossed 
his  legs.  Then,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  he 
said : 

"Mr.  Drury  doesn't  seem  able  to  give  us  much 
information,  nor  does  he  seem  able  to  discuss  this 
matter  with  businesslike  calmness.  I  suggest  that 
for  a  few  minutes  he  should  leave  us  to  consider 
it  by  ourselves." 

Drury  jumped  up. 

"I  agree  it  would  be  better,"  he  said  sarcas- 
tically. "I'm  afraid  I  can't  be  of  service  in  fol- 
lowing Mr.  Garrod's  speculations." 

No  one  spoke,  and  Drury  went  out  of  the  room. 

[163] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

When  he  had  gone  Garrod  leant  forward  and  said 
with  emphasis: 

"I  don't  believe  she  ever  lost  it." 

Several  of  the  men  nodded  assent. 

"You  see,"  Hinchin  said,  "we  know  absolutely 
nothing  at  present.  It's  impossible  to  come  to  any 
conclusion  on  the  data  we've  got.  But  McVitie's 
sharp  enough  in  a  case  like  this;  we've  had  to  do 
with  him  before." 

"We  must  get  into  touch  with  him  at  once," 
Garrod  declared.  "Who'll  go?  Shall  we  send  a 
detective  or  shall  one  of  us  go?" 

"Will  you  go?"  Hinchin  suggested. 

"If  you  like." 

"What  do  you  think?"  Hinchin  asked,  turning 
to  the  solicitor. 

Mr.  Porton  had  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion, 
but  his  shrewd  eyes  showed  that  he  had  not  missed 
a  word.  Now,  shifting  his  position  a  little  so  as 
to  command  a  more  direct  view  of  the  party,  he 
answered : 

"That  would  do  no  harm,  but  I  have  an  alterna- 
tive proposal  to  make  to  you.  It  has  just  occurred 
to  me,  and  I  think  it  might  be  worth  considera- 
tion." He  paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on : 

"At  present  we  know  practically  nothing  about 
the  affair,  and  I  rather  sympathize  with  Mr. 
Drury's  feeling  that  Mr.  Garrod's  suspicions  are 
uncalled  for — yet.  He  knows  the  lady  and  we 
don't,  and  I  daresay  she  is  all  that  he  seems  to 
think  her." 

[  164  ] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"It's  always  fishy  when  a  risk  like  this  matures 
within  a  few  months  after  it's  accepted,"  Garrod 
interrupted. 

"I  agree.  But  you  can  only  surmise  fraud  on 
the  general  ground  that  it  is — er — fishy.  There's 
no  more  reason  why  the  necklace  should  be  stolen 
five  years  hence  than  now." 

"Of  course,  of  course." 

"Still,  it's  worth  looking  into,  as  you  say.  And 
if  you  find  nothing  suspicious  you  can  fall  back  on 
the  usual  all-over-Europe  -hunt." 

"Quite  so.  And  we  can  draw  our  checks  and 
look  pleasant." 

"Could  you  ever  do  that,  Garrod?"  a  man 
asked  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  I'm  as  good  a  loser  as  any  one  when  the 
game's  fair." 

"I  take  it,"  Porton  said,  "that,  in  this  instance, 
at  any  rate,  the  lady's  fair." 

"Yes;  a  pretty  face  and  a  nimble  wit,  and  I 
expect  she  lives  on  both  of  'em." 

"Well,  to  get  back  to  business,"  Porton  said, 
"if  the  lady  is  really  not  all  she  should  be  she 
wants  clever  watching.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
you're  wrong,  and  it  proves  to  be  a  straightforward 
case  of  burglary,  there's  more  than  a  chance  that 
some  one  in  the  house — one  of  the  servants — is 
standing  in.  My  experience  goes  to  show  that  nine 
times  out  of  ten  that  is  so." 

"I  agree,"  Hinchin  said. 

"In  either  event,  your  best  chance  of  recovering 

[165] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

is  to  have  a  man  in  the  house.  But  the  drawback 
to  that  is  that,  nearly  always,  he  is  known  to  be  a 
detective  and  so  puts  every  one  on  their  guard." 

"Yes." 

"Now,  if  it  can  be  arranged,  I've  got  a  man  in 
view  who  is  a  complete  stranger  to  England,  and 
he  might  go  as  a  guest  and  stay  in  the  house." 

"Who  is  he?"  two  or  three  men  asked. 

"He's  an  American,  who  is  over  here  with  his 
wife  on  a  holiday.  They  are  private  detectives  in 
New  York  and  usually  work  together,  doing  mostly 
society  scandal  cases  and  so  on.  We  have  em- 
ployed them  more  than  once  on  delicate  inquiries 
and  have  been  very  well  satisfied  with  them." 

"That  sounds  all  right,"  Garrod  said.  "But 
are  they  presentable  —  English  country-house 
style?" 

"Perfectly.  All  the  more  so  because,  as  Ameri- 
cans, they  will  be  pardoned  for  any  little  slips." 

"Can  you  get  at  them  to-day?" 

"Yes.  They  called  on  me  a  few  days  ago. 
They're  staying  at  a  hotel  in  Bloomsbury." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"His  name  is  Luke  Johns." 

"That's  inspiring,"  Hinchin  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"It  sounds  like  a  missionary." 

"Ah,  but  he  doesn't  look  like  one.  He's  a  little, 
fattish,  tight-lipped  fellow,  and  his  wife's  smart 
and  very  well  dressed — quite  the  sort  of  person  you 
wouldn't  mind  taking  in  to  dinner — er — at  some 
— one  else's  house." 

[166] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"I  think  we'd  better  try  them?"  Hinchin  sug- 
gested, looking  round  for  approval.  "But  aren't 
there  difficulties  in  the  way,  Porton?  This  man 
Vawdrey  won't  want  a  couple  of  detectives  thrust 
upon  him  as  extra  guests  for  his  shooting  party." 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  Porton  answered,  "and 
I'm  sure  he'll  listen  to  reason.  I  know  him  fairly 
well.  He's  a  very  good  fellow,  one  of  the  best, 
and  I'd  go  up  and  arrange  it  with  him  myself." 

"What  about  Drury?"  Garrod  asked.  "He'll 
be  warning  his  lady  friend  to  look  out  for  herself 
and  then  all  our  efforts  will  be  in  vain." 

"Why  tell  him  at  all?"  another  man  asked. 
"He  needn't  go  back  there,  and  he'll  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"Oh,  you  can't  rely  on  that,"  Porton  said. 
"If  she  writes  and  tells  him  that  some  people  have 
come  to  the  house  he  may  guess.  Besides,  I  think 
it's  better  he  should  go  back.  If  Mr.  Garrod  is 
right  you  don't  want  to  disturb  the  game." 

"Just  so,"  Garrod  agreed.     "But  he'll  tell  her." 

"No,  he  won't.  Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  have  a 
talk  with  him  and  win  his  co-operation." 

"Is  it  going  to  run  us  into  much  expense?" 
Hinchin  asked. 

"It  ought  not  to.  The  Luke  Johns  are  on  a 
holiday,  and  it  will  amuse  them  to  see  the  inside 
of  an  English  household  and  a  bit  of  moorland 
scenery.  I  can  put  it  to  them  to  accept  their  ex- 
penses— say  twenty  pounds — with  a  big  reward  if 
they  recover  the  jewelry." 

[167] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Five  hundred  or  a  thousand,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.    It's  worth  that." 

No  one  seemed  to  have  anything  further  to  say, 
and  Hinchin  at  length  summed  up : 

"Then,  shall  we  leave  it  in  Mr.  Porton's  hands 
to  act  on  those  lines?" 

Every  one  agreed,  and  after  one  or  two  final 
words  the  meeting  broke  up.  Porton  went  to  find 
Drury,  who  was  in  his  own  room. 

"May  I  come  and  have  a  chat?"  he  asked, 
adopting  his  most  conciliatory  manner. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  Drury  said,  as  he  rose  from  his 
chair.  "Sit  down,  won't  you?  Will  you  smoke?" 

"Thanks." 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  gossiped  for  a  minute  or  two 
before  he  touched  upon  the  subject  of  the  robbery. 
Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  said: 

"About  this  affair,  Mr.  Drury.  I  thought  I'd 
come  and  tell  you  that  we've  decided  upon  a  plan 
which  I  think  you  will  approve." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  Drury  answered,  with  a 
perceptible  increase  of  coldness  in  his  tone. 

"In  these  cases  every  one  must  pull  together, 
and  it  would  be  most  regettable  if  any  little  mis- 
understanding were  to  exist  between  you  and  the 
others.  Especially  so,  because  your  co-operation  is 
necessary — not,  of  course,  in  any  active  way, 
but  simply  in  forgetting  all  I'm  going  to  tell 
you." 

"Why  tell  me  if  you  want  me  to  forget  it?" 

"Because  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  think  that  any- 
[168] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

thing  was  being  done  behind  your  back.    We  must 
work  together." 

"Well?" 

"You  took  umbrage — and  I  think  quite  justifia- 
bly— at  Mr.  Garrod's  remarks.  He  has  not  a  very 
happy  way  of  expressing  himself." 

"I  thought  he  was  talking  nonsense,  and  of- 
fensive nonsense  at  that." 

"He  was,  rather.  There's  no  ground  for  re- 
flecting on  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  character;  we're 
all  agreed  upon  that.  But  if  you  call  on  a  man  to 
pay  up  a  large  sum  of  money  he  naturally  wants 
to  get  as  near  the  bottom  of  the  matter  as  he  can." 

"Oh,  certainly;   I  do  myself." 

"Quite  so.  Now,  at  present  we  know  absolutely 
nothing;  and  don't  misunderstand  me  when  I  say 
that  we  don't  even  know  that  the  jewelry  was 
stolen.  We  want  to  know  that  first,  and  then  we 
want  to  know  who  took  it." 

"Yes." 

"Given  that  it  was  stolen,  it's  a  fair  inference 
that  there's  some  one  in  the  house  who  knows  some- 
thing about  it;  servants  are  nearly  always  involved 
in  a  thing  of  this  kind." 

"Very  often." 

"So  this  is  what  we  propose.  You  shall  go  up 
to  Gains  to-night.  Say  nothing  of  what  has  been 
discussed  either  to  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  or  to  any 
one  else.  If  questions  are  asked,  you  believe  that 
it  is  in  the  hands  of  the  detective  from  Edinburgh 
and  that  he  is  doing  all  that  is  possible." 
[169] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"What  else?" 

"I  will  go  with  you,  and  I  shall  bring  with  me 
a  couple  of  friends — very  pleasant  Americans.  I 
shall  arrange  for  Mr.  Vawdrey  to  ask  them  to 
stay  at  Gains  for  a  few  days." 

"Detectives!  But  I'm  sure  Mr.  Vawdrey  won't 
stand  having  any  one  posing  as  a  guest  in  order 
to  spy  'on  the  house." 

"I  think  he  will  if  I  ask  him  and  if  you  ask  him." 

Drury  hesitated  for  some  time  before  he  said: 

"Well,  I  don't  mind.  I'm  as  keen  as  any  one 
to  clear  the  thing  up." 

"Naturally  you  are,  and  this  is  the  best  chance 
you  have  of  doing  it.  But  you  must  remember 
that,  if  it  is  to  succeed,  no  one  must  know  about  it. 
For  instance,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  mustn't  know." 

"Why  not?"  Drury  asked,  with  a  look  of  an- 
noyance on  his  face. 

"For  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  if  she  is 
told,  some  one  else  will  be  told,  and  in  twenty-four 
hours  it  will  be  common  property.  In  the  second 
place,  we  must  have  independent  proof  that  the 
necklace  was  really  stolen." 

"That's  absurd." 

"Pardon  me,  it  is  necessary.  I  agree  there's 
nothing  against  her,  not  a  breath.  But  once  the 
suggestion  has  been  made  we  must  prove  it  to  be 
unfounded.  A  thing  like  that  wants  killing;  it 
isn't  enough  to  put  it  on  one  side  and  disregard  it." 

"Yes,  I  see  that,"  Drury  answered  reluctantly. 
"All  the  same,  it's  very  awkward  for  me  to  feel 
[170] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

that  she  is  being  suspected  and  spied  upon.  It's 
altogether  different  to  having  some  one  there  to 
watch  the  servants." 

"I  agree  it  is  awkward.  But  there's  no  other 
way  out  of  it.  And  unless  she's  told  she  won't 
know  anything  about  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it;  and,  in  spite  of  all  you 
say,  I  don't  see  the  necessity." 

"It  exists  and  I  strongly  urge  you  to  yield  to  it." 

"Suppose  I  don't." 

"In  that  case,  Mr.  Garrod,  at  all  events,  will 
never  be  brought  to  believe  in  Mrs.  Dayrell- Wing's 
innocence."  He  had  struck  the  right  note.  Drury 
disliked  Garrod  extremely,  and  believed  him  ca- 
pable of  gloating  over  the  dissemination  of  a 
scandal;  and  in  connection  with  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  this  was  unbearable.  As  Porton  said,  her 
innocence  must  be  proved  in  order  to  muzzle  him, 
and  after  a  moment's  reflection  Drury  gave  a  re- 
luctant assent. 

"Yes,  'I  see,"  he  said.  "I  suppose,  as  things 
are,  that  one  can't  help  oneself." 

"I  think  it's  the  best  course,  really  I  do." 

"Very  well." 

"Then  I'll  meet  you  to-night  on  the  train. 
I  must  be  off  now  and  make  arrangements. 
Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

"Shall  I  order  you  a  sleeping  berth?" 

"Yes,  will  you?" 

"That  chap  only  wants  handling,"  Porton  said 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

to  himself,  as  he  went  back  to  his  office.  "He's  a 
good  enough  fellow,  but  I  think  he's  a  bit  gone  on 
the  Australian  widow.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
had  a  rude  awakening." 


CHAPTER  II 

N  reaching  his  office,  Porton  telephoned  to  the 
hotel  where  Luke  Johns  and  his  wife  were 
staying  and  asked  them  to  come  and  see  him ;  and 
within  half  an  hour  they  arrived. 

As  a  girl,  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  had  been  very  at- 
tractive and  she  still  passed  for  a  pretty  woman. 
She  was  slight,  with  a  very  elegant  figure,  and  small 
hands  and  feet.  Her  clothes  were  noticeably 
smart — a  little  too  smart  to  be  good.  Her  blue 
serge  shirt  was  a  shade  too  narrow,  her  hat  per- 
haps a  quarter  of  an  inch  too  wide,  her  gloves  a 
trifle  too  long,  her  sleeves  a  trifle  too  short.  She 
meant  to  be  mondainc,  and,  overshooting  the  mark 
by  a  fraction,  she  became  "poster-ish." 

With  a  good  complexion,  abundant  hair,  and 
remarkably  well-shaped  ears,  she  had  kept  the 
profile  of  twenty-two.  It  was  only  when  one  saw 
her  full  face  that  one  perceived  her  to  be  a  much 
older  and  more  experienced  woman.  The  eyes 
were  old;  they  were  surrounded  by  myriads  of  fine 
lines  and  they  had  lost  their  brilliancy.  They 
looked  at  the  world  steadily,  seldom  kindled  by 
emotion,  and  without  expectation  of  great  events. 
But,  although  they  were  expressive  of  great  courage 
and  determination,  they  had  not  the  hard,  glassy 
appearance  which,  more  than  anything,  mars  a 
woman's  beauty. 

[173] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

She  was  distinctively  American,  and,  in  his  own 
style,  Luke  Johns  was  equally  unmistakable.  He 
was  angular  without  being  thin,  like  one  of  Uncle 
Sam's  caricatures  in  wood,  and  his  clothes  accen- 
tuated the  squareness  of  his  shoulders  and  his  pro- 
tuberant chest.  His  neck  was  short  and  thick,  and 
his  large  bony  head  seemed  too  tightly  screwed  on 
to  his  body.  He  was  clean-shaven,  with  high  cheek 
bones  and  thin,  mobile  lips,  and  his  eyes  were  set 
somewhat  far  apart  under  the  wide  forehead.  He 
gave  the  impression  of  great  alertness,  both  of 
body  and  mind,  like  a  boxer  in  the  ring. 

Porton  begged  them  to  sit  down,  saying: 

"I've  sent  for  you  to  ask  if  you'd  care  to  take 
up  a  case  which  has  just  come  before  me.  Are 
you  more  or  less  at  liberty  for  a  week  or  so?" 

"We're  seeing  London,"  Johns  answered.  "But 
that  isn't  urgent.  What's  the  business?" 

"Well,  a  certain  lady  is  staying  at  a  house  in 
Scotland,  and  the  night  before  last  a  very  valuable 
diamond  necklace  belonging  to  her  disappeared. 
At  present  we  have  no  particulars,  except  that  the 
matter  has  been  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  very 
capable  detective." 

"Official,  I  suppose?"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  asked. 

"Yes.  He  was  called  in  by  her  host,  whom  I 
happen  to  know  fairly  well.  However,  in  this 
matter  I'm  not  acting  for  him  or  for  the  lady.  My 
clients  are  certain  members  of  Lloyds  who,  only 
a  few  months  ago,  accepted  a  risk  of  twenty 
thousand  pounds  on  the  necklace." 

[174] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Just  so.  And  they  want  to  know  where  she's 
put  it,"  Johns  said. 

His  short  cut  to  a  carefully  prepared  explanation 
took  Porton  aback. 

"Well — er — "  he  said,  "we're  not  justified  in 
putting  it  quite  in  that  way.  but  it  has  been  sug- 
gested— I  say,  suggested — that  something  of  that 
kind  is  a  possible  solution  of  the  mystery." 

"What  is  her  name?"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  asked. 

"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing.  She  is  a  widow  from 
Australia,  who  .came  to  this  country  some  few 
years  ago.  She  seems  to  be  very  wealthy,  and  I 
am  told  she  is  well  known  in  London  society." 

"In  New  York  they  come  from  'Frisco,"  Johns 
remarked  dryly.  "And  they're  real  careless  about 
diamonds;  they  always  lose  them.  Even  if  they 
aren't  insured  it's  a  useful  hint  to  some  one  that 
they  want  new  ones." 

"Come,  come,"  Porton  said,  smiling  in  spite  of 
being  a  good  deal  shocked.  "You  mustn't  jump 
to  conclusions  like  this.  As  far  as  we  know,  the 
lady's  as  respectable  as  Britannia." 

"Just  so." 

"However,  whether  that's  so  or  not,  my  clients 
feel  that  it  is  a  case  which  calls  for  searching  in- 
vestigation." 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  agreed  softly. 

"Now,  we  have  the  fullest  confidence  in  the  de- 
tective who  is  working  on  it ;  he's  a  first-rate  man. 
I  don't  want  to  interfere  writh  him  in  any  way,  but 
I  want  to  supplement  his  inquiries  by  introducing 

[175] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

into  the  house  some  one  who  is  not  known  to  be 
a  detective.  And  it  occurred  to  me,  after  your 
call  here,  that  perhaps  you  might  like  to  spend  a 
week  of  your  holiday  in  Scotland  and  just  look 
round." 

"We  should  love  it." 

"Good.     Can  you  travel  up  with  me  to-night?" 

"Why  not?"  Luke  Johns  said. 

"Very  well,  then.  Now,  as  to  your  fee.  If  my 
clients  have  to  pay  this  claim  they  are  not  in  a 
position  to  be  generous.  I  said  I  would  put  it  to 
you  in  this  way — that  you  should  regard  it  as  a 
pleasure  trip,  with  fares  paid  and  a  small  check 
for  expenses — say,  twenty  pounds.  If,  through 
your  efforts,  the  necklace  is  recovered,  they  will 
recognize  your  services  handsomely.  In  that  event 
I  think  I  can  promise  you  five  or  six  hundred 
guineas." 

Luke  Johns  looked  at  his  wife,  and  she  an- 
swered : 

"Mr.  Porton,  whatever  you  settle  will  be  wel- 
come to  us.  We  didn't  think  of  doing  business 
over  here,  but  if  we  can  be  useful  to  you  we  shall 
be  just  too  pleased." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  Then  we'll  leave  it  on 
those  terms.  And  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  on  the 
train  to-night — eleven-thirty  from  King's  Cross. 
I'm  going  to  travel  with  you  because  I  have  to 
arrange  for  your  reception.  There  may  be  a  little 
difficulty,  but  I  hope  not." 

"We'll  be  there." 

[176] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Oh,  and  by  the  way,  Mr.  Drury  will  travel 
with  us.  His  firm  is  one  of  those  concerned  in  the 
insurance,  and  the  policy  was  effected  through  him. 
He  was  staying  in  the  house  when  the  robbery  took 
place,  and  I'd  better  give  you  a  hint  that  I  fancy 
he  is  not  altogether  indifferent  to  the  lady.  Con- 
sequently, you  needn't  say  to  him  that  your  special 
mission  is  to  keep  her  under  observation — you 
understand?" 

"Quite,"  Luke  Johns  answered  brightly.  "He 
thinks  we're  just  going  up  to  admire  the  view." 

"Well,  not  quite  that,"  Porton  answered  rather 

pompously,  "but  to  have  an  eye  on  the  servants." 

"We'll  do  our  best,  Mr.  Porton,"  Mrs.  Luke 

Johns  said,  as  she  shook  hands.     "We'd  like  that 

reward." 

When  they  had  left  the  office  Luke  Johns  said: 
"Five    or    six    hundred    guineas — that's    three 
thousand  dollars." 

"We  could  spend  it,"  his  wife  answered. 
"We  could.    But  we've  got  no  chance;  we  don't 
know  the  ground  here  as  we  do  in  New  York." 
"We've  no  chance — unless  we  know  her." 
"My  Gawd;   wonder  if  it's  Lil  Potter." 
"It  might  be  anybody.     There  are  plenty." 
"That's  so.       Wish   she   said    she   came   from 
'Frisco;  it'd  seem  more  homelike,  wouldn't  it?" 


CHAPTER  III 

'  I  A  HAT  evening,  soon  after  eleven  o'clock,  Mr. 
•*-  Porton  drove  up  to  King's  Cross  Station  in 
a  taxicab  in  time  to  meet  the  Luke  Johns  and  to 
introduce  them  to  Drury.  His  afternoon  had  been 
spent  in  thinking  over  arrangements,  and  in  fram- 
ing a  long  telegram  to  Vawdrey  which  should  be 
sufficiently  explicit  without  being  indiscreet.  The 
final  draft  was  as  follows : 

"Please  bring  car  yourself  to  meet  ten 
twenty-four  A.  M.  train  to-morrow  at  Mon- 
trose.  Important  I  should  see  you,  so  am 
traveling  with  Drury  and  with  two  Ameri- 
can friends  of  yours,  who  anticipate  pleas- 
ure of  few  days  at  Gains  if  convenient. 
Bring  McVitie  with  you  in  car,  as  must 
see  him  before  I  return  next  train. 

"AUBREY  PORTON." 

Vawdrey  had  telegraphed  an  acknowledgment 
of  this,  and  when  the  train  drew  into  Montrose  he 
was  waiting  on  the  platform.  Porton  hastened  up 
to  him  and  shook  hands,  saying : 

"How  are  you,  my  dear  fellow?  I  want  two 
minutes  alone  with  you  before  I  introduce  your 
friends  from  New  York." 

"Right  you  are.  I  don't  know  what  you're 
driving  at,  but  come  in  here.  Will  your  friends, 

[178] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

whom  you  call  my  friends,  be  all  right  by  them- 
selves ?" 

"Drury'll  look  after  them." 

They  went  into  the  deserted  waiting-room,  and 
Porton  put  his  hand  on  Vawdrey's  arm,  saying : 

"I'm  taking  a  liberty,  Vawdrey,  an  infernal 
liberty,  to  oblige  a  client.  And  if  you  don't  like  it, 
I'll  apologize,  and  no  harm  will  have  been  done." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is  first  before  you  go  on  to 
the  apology,"  Vawdrey  answered,  with  a  smile. 
He  knew  Porton  well,  and  in  London  they  often 
met  in  the  card-room  of  the  club. 

"I'm  acting  for  the  insurers  of  the  stolen  neck- 
lace. Drury  came  to  London  knowing  nothing 
except  that  it  had  disappeared,  and  that  McVitie 
was  in  charge  of  the  case.  Is  there  a  clue?" 

"Yes,  he  knows  who  took  it,"  Vawdrey  an- 
swered gravely.  "But  there  isn't  evidence  enough 
yet  for  an  arrest." 

"Then  you  haven't  recovered  the  necklace?" 

"No." 

"Ah !  Of  course,  we  didn't  know  you'd  got 
even  so  far  as  you  have;  and  it  was  the  general 
feeling  that  something  ought  to  be  done  from  our 
end,  as  we're  the  really  interested  parties." 

"No  doubt  you  are." 

"At  the  meeting  yesterday  I  made  a  proposal, 
and  they  jumped  at  it.  That's  why  I'm  here. 
After  what  McVitie  has  discovered  it  may  seem 
superfluous;  but,  as  the  necklace  is  still  missing,  I 
don't  think  it's  necessarily  so.  And  now  that 
we're  here  I  want  your  consent  to  go  on." 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It's  this.  I've  brought  down  two  American 
detectives  whom  I  know  personally.  They  hap- 
pened to  be  in  England  on  a  holiday  and  called  on 
me  a  day  or  two  ago;  and  it  struck  me  that  they 
might  be  more  useful  than  any  one  else  in  running 
this  thing  to  earth.  As  a  favor  to  me  and  to 
Drury,  I  want  you  to  receive  them  as  your  guests 
for  a  few  days.  They  won't  interfere  with  Mc- 
Vitie,  and  their  assistance  may  be  very  valuable." 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  that,"  Vawdrey  said,  some- 
what impatiently.  "And  besides  the  culprit's  gone. 
He  left  this  morning.  In  confidence  I  may  tell  you, 
it's  a  man  named  Pfeiffer — do  you  know  him?" 

"No.    Are  you  sure  he  did  it?" 

"McVitie  is;  and  from  what  he  tells  me  I  don't 
see  who  else  could  have  done  it.  But  he  must 
have  had  an  accomplice,  because  he  got  rid  of  the 
necklace  and  it  hasn't  been  found." 

"Then  it's  worth  trying  these  people.  Probably 
the  accomplice  was  one  of  the  servants.' 

"No,  no;   you  can't  ask  me  to  do  that." 

"I  do  ask  it,"  Porton  said  firmly. 

"It's  very  unpleasant.  The  people  who  are  stay- 
ing with  me  would  resent  it." 

"They'll  never  find  out.  Johns  and  his  wife  are 
quite  all  right,  and  they're  as  clever  as  monkeys. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  introduce  them  as  friends 
you  met  when  you  were  last  in  New  York ;  they'll 
do  the  rest." 

"I'm  sick  to  death  of  this  beastly  affair,"  Vaw- 
drey cried.  "I've  never  been  so  worried  in  my 
[180] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

life.  I  can't  tell  you  everything,  but  it's  touched 
me  very  closely." 

Porton,  like  many  clever  men,  was  always  eager 
for  his  own  schemes,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  let 
Vawdrey  block  this  one. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "I  understand  your 
feelings  perfectly.  But  in  fairness,  as  a  matter  of 
business,  you  ought  to  help  my  clients.  I'll  put  it 
to  you  as  a  favor  to  myself." 

Vawdrey  shrugged  his  shoulders,  saying: 

"If  you  make  it  a  personal  matter  I  can't  very 
well  refuse  you.  But  I  don't  like  it,  Porton." 

"No;  but  if  we  recover  the  jewelry  you  will. 
You'll  feel  then  that  the  end  justified  the  means." 

"I  hope  to  heaven  I  shall  never  feel  that  about 
anything.  That's  a  dirty  argument,  and  this  is 
rather  a  dirty  business — upon  my  soul  it  is." 

"Then  say  you  won't  do  it  and  I'll  take  them 
back  again,"  Porton  answered,  not  daring  to  press 
him  too  urgently. 

"No.  You've  come,  and  I'll  go  through  with  it. 
Perhaps  something  will  result,  and  really  I  should 
be  thankful  if  it  did." 

He  was  longing  for  positive  proof  of  Pfeiffer's 
guilt;  for,  if  the  theft  could  not  be  brought  home 
to  him,  there  would  always  be  the  danger  of  his 
overpersuading  Ethel  and  inducing  her  to  marry 
him. 

"You've  quite  made  up  your  mind?"  Porton 
asked,  eyeing  him  shrewdly. 

"Yes.  I'll  do  it — and,  to  be  honest,  not  entirely 
[181] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

to  oblige  you.    I  want  this  damned  fellow  caught." 

"I  hope  he  will  be.  And  in  any  case  you've  laid 
me  under  a  deep  obligation,  for  which  I'm  very 
grateful." 

"That's  all  right." 

"Now,  I'd  better  have  a  word  with  McVitie; 
he  may  want  smoothing  down.  Will  you  wait 
here?  And  I'll  bring  him  and  the  Johns  along. 
Where  is  he?" 

"In  the  car  outside." 

"Right.  By  the  way,  secrecy's  everything; 
need  you  tell  Mrs.  Vawdrey?" 

"Not  if  you  don't  want  me  to.  I've  got  to  lie  all 
round,  so  I  may  as  well  lie  to  her  as  to  the  others. 
But  I  expect  she'll  spot  them." 

"She  won't,  if  you  don't  give  it  away." 

Porton  went  out  to  find  McVitie,  who  had 
driven  from  Gains  with  Vawdrey  and  was  on  his 
way  to  Edinburgh. 

"Mr.  McVitie?"  he  asked  suavely. 

"Yes." 

"I  must  introduce  myself.  My  name  is  Por- 
ton, of  Porton  &  Paver,  solicitors;  and  I  am  act- 
ing for  several  firms  at  Lloyds  who  are  interested 
as  insurers  in  the  loss  of  this  necklace." 

"You  wished  to  see  me  about  it?" 

"If  you  can  give  me  a  few  minutes.  The  fact 
is,  my  clients  are  determined  to  do  everything  pos- 
sible to  unravel  the  matter;  and  in  addition  to  the 
inquiries  which  you  are  following  up — which,  of 
course,  could  not  be  in  better  hands — they  think 
[182] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

it  most  desirable  to  have  some  one  in  the  house 
who  is  entirely  unknown  there.  You  understand, 
it  won't  interfere  with  the  measures  you  are  taking 
or  in  any  sense  affect  your  control  of  the  case.  It's 
simply  an  additional  effort." 

"You  have  brought  a  London  detective?  I 
don't  need  him,"  McVitie  answered,  with  a  sour 
expression  on  his  face.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of 
what  was  due  to  him,  and  was  not  going  to  tolerate 
officious  intervention. 

"No;  I've  brought  an  American  and  his  wife, 
whom  I  have  employed  in  the  States  on  one  or  two 
occasions.  They  happened  to  be  in  London,  and 
my  clients  decided  to  take  advantage  of  it  and  put 
them  on  to  this  affair.  They  are  going  to  spend 
a  few  days  at  Gains  as  Mr.  Vawdrey's  guests — 
friends  whom  he  met  in  New  York." 

"Oh!" 

"Of  course,  the  case  being  in  your  hands,  I  did 
not  propose  to  do  this  without  consulting  you,  so 
I  asked  Mr.  Vawdrey  to  arrange  a  meeting  here. 
I  trust,  however,  that  you — er — see  no  objection?" 

If  Mr.  McVitie  had  intended  to  remain  at 
Gains  he  would  have  refused  point  blank.  But  his 
work  there  was  done;  and  he  was  leaving  for  Lon- 
don to  rejoin  Shaw,  who  was  shadowing  Pfeiffer. 
So  he  answered:  "There's  no  objection,  if  your 
clients  are  willing  to  waste  their  money." 

Porton  was  nettled  and  said : 

"I  don't  think  we  need  assume  yet  that  it's 
waste  of  money." 

[183] 


"You  may.     I'm  following  up  the  right  man." 

"And  the  accomplice?" 

McVitie  was  touched  on  a  sore  point,  for  his 
inquiries  in  the  neighborhood  had  resulted  in  noth- 
ing, and  he  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  Pfeiffer  had 
got  rid  of  the  necklace. 

"If  there  was  one  he'll  not  be  found  at  Gains," 
he  answered.  "I've  finished  the  inquiry  there." 

"Ah,  then  my  American  friends  won't  clash 
with  you  at  all.  That's  just  as  well.  Now,  if 
you'll  come  with  me  I'll  introduce  you.  You 
might,  perhaps,  tell  them  briefly  what  has  been 
done." 

McVitie,  in  a  contemptuous  mood,  followed 
him  to  the  waiting-room,  where  they  were  joined 
by  Drury  and  the  Luke  Johns. 

"Mr.  Vawdrey,"  Porton  said,  with  a  smile,  "let 
me  present  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Luke  Johns — friends 
whom  you  met  when  you  were  last  in  America." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  shook  hands  with  Vawdrey, 
repeating  his  name  in  a  tone  of  interrogation. 
Luke  Johns,  on  the  spot  at  once,  said : 

"Happy  to  meet  you  again.  When  was  it  you 
were  in  our  city?" 

"Mr.  McVitie — Mrs.  Luke  Johns — Mr.  Luke 
Johns,"  Porton  went  on.  "Mr.  Johns,  you  may 
like  a  moment's  chat  with  Mr.  McVitie  while  the 
car  is  getting  ready." 

McVitie  gave  Johns  a  limp  hand,  and  his  face 
was  as  expressionless  as  a  piece  of  wood.  Johns 
drew  him  aside  and,  disregarding  his  evident  dis- 
[184] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

inclination  to  say  anything,  began  telling  him  how 
much  honored  he  felt  in  meeting  him,  and  went  on 
to  a  series  of  deferential  questions  about  the  case. 

Standing  together,  the  men  presented  a  remark- 
able contrast.  McVitie,  tall,  thin,  and  leathery, 
with  stooping  shoulders  and  pale  eyes,  looked  a 
typical  Glasgow  citizen.  His  badly  fitting  clothes 
were  much  worn,  his  boots  were  clumsy,  and  his 
unbuttoned  overcoat  sagged  away  in  heavy  creases. 
He  looked  rather  stupid  and  quite  uninterested; 
but  he  was  far  from  being  either.  He  was  taking 
Luke  Johns'  measure  as  carefully  as  if  he  had 
been  interviewing  a  criminal.  He  had  no  faith  in 
what  he  called  "fancy  detectives,"  private  inquirers 
who  worked  unofficially,  and  were  often  capable  of 
changing  sides  if  it  suited  their  pockets  to  do  so. 
In  his  opinion,  some  were  liars,  some  blackmailers, 
and  the  rest  mostly  incompetent;  for  he  had  the 
official  mind,  which  resents  outside  competition 
with  a  government  department.  Johns  struck  him 
as  wide-awake,  flashy,  a  leaper  to  conclusions, 
probably  a  man  who  did  not  keep  note-books. 
But,  grudgingly,  he  admitted  his  acuteness.  He 
would  have  liked  to  think  him  a  fool;  but  he  had 
to  fall  back  on  thinking  him  a  rogue. 

Luke  Johns,  standing  beside  McVitie,  looked 
below  the  average  height  and  unnaturally  broad. 
His  high  shoulders  were  made  higher  by  the  cut 
of  his  jacket,  and  his  soft  hat  was  pulled  well  over 
his  forehead  and  set  at  an  acute  angle.  His  eyes 
were  as  bright  as  a  bird's,  and  his  thin  lips  moved 
[185] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

rapidly  as  he  talked.  To  McVitie  he  was  friendly 
and  respectful.  He  guessed  that  he  was  "feeling 
bad"  at  another  detective  being  brought  into  the 
case,  and  he  made  it  a  rule  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  the  official  police  and  to  win  a  friend  when- 
ever he  could.  So  he  listened  patiently  to  the 
Scotchman's  slow  and  unwilling  statements,  and 
loaded  him  with  congratulations  on  having  traced 
the  theft  to  the  right  man. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "I  sha'n't 
get  the  salvage  money  this  journey.  I'm  a  day 
after  the  funeral." 

"You'll  find  Gains  a  pleasant  hoose  for  a  stay," 
McVitie  answered,  with  a  dry  smile. 

"I  reckon  so,"  Johns  agreed  cheerfully. 

He  was  not  convinced  by  McVitie's  proofs 
against  Pfeiffer,  for  experience  had  taught  him 
that  the  obvious  man  was  seldom  the  right  one. 
Besides,  Porton's  theory  that  the  necklace  had 
never  been  stolen  appealed  to  him  as  being  far 
more  probable.  But  he  had  no  intention  of  dis- 
turbing McVitie's  beliefs  and  bringing  him  back 
to  Gains.  He  wanted  the  field  to  himself.  Three 
thousand  dollars  were  hanging  to  the  recovery  of 
the  jewels. 

During  the  first  part  of  the  drive  to  Gains 
Vawdrey  was  silent  and  did  not  respond  to  Mrs. 
Luke  Johns'  agreeable  chatter.  He  was  annoyed 
at  having  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  by  Por- 
ton :  to  pass  off  these  Americans  as  friends  whom 
he  had  met  in  New  York  was  repugnant  to  his 
[,86] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

sense  of  honor,  and  he  began  to  dislike  them  very 
heartily.  But  for  Ethel's  sake  he  would  never  have 
agreed  to  it.  He  had  seen  her  that  morning,  after 
Pfeiffer's  departure,  reserved  and  sad,  and  his  heart 
was  very  sore  at  the  danger  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  It  was  the  remembrance  of  her  unusual 
quietness  which  had  made  him  yield  to  Porton's 
persuasion.  He  longed  for  her  safety,  and,  like  a 
skilful  surgeon,  he  believed  that  the  most  severe 
treatment  was  the  kindest.  Pfeiffer's  guilt  must  be 
publicly  proved,  and  any  chance  of  doing  so  ought 
not  to  be  rejected;  so  he  had  allowed  the  Luke 
Johns  to  come  to  Gains. 

Sitting  opposite  to  them  in  the  motor  he  looked 
them  over  with  a  prejudiced  eye.  The  woman  was 
not  so  bad,  certainly.  She  was  good-looking,  and 
had  a  Frenchified  style  about  her,  even  if  it  was  a 
little  extravagant.  Her  accent,  too,  was  not  un- 
pleasing.  In  fairness  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
she  was  attractive  and  quite  capable  of  playing  the 
part  of  a  friend  from  America. 

But,  clearly,  her  husband  did  not  belong  to  the 
aristocracy.  He  did  not  look  as  if  he  came  from 
that  city  of  culture  which  he  called  "Barston,"  nor 
did  he  carry  in  his  face  the  signs  of  spiritual  force 
which  atone  for  lack  of  breeding.  He  was  com- 
monplace. His  square,  fattish  body  needed  exer- 
cise, his  feet  and  hands  were  chubby,  and  his  tweed 
suit  was  execrable.  Vawdrey,  with  some  disgust, 
summed  him  up  as  an  "outsider." 

Yet,  as  he  watched  him,  he  saw  that  there  was 

[187] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

a  certain  attractive  quality  about  him,  which  drew 
off  attention  from  his  defects.  The  vivacious  eyes, 
the  expression  of  alertness  when  he  talked,  were 
striking;  and  Vawdrey  could  not  help  contrasting 
him  with  McVitie,  whose  gaucherie  and  fishlike  in- 
difference had  annoyed  him  so  much.  Whatever 
Johns  was,  he  was  not  a  fool ;  and,  as  Vawdrey  be- 
came more  sure  of  this,  his  dislike  began  to  wane. 

So,  when  Luke  Johns  presently  leant  across  to 
him  and  said,  "Where  was  it  we  met  you?"  he 
answered  with  a  smile : 

"Perhaps  at  the  hotel  at  Niagara.  I  was  there 
last  September." 

Johns  nodded  approval,  saying:  "That'll  do. 
Better  get  it  fixed  right  or  we'll  be  snagged  at 
question  time.  Just  to  refresh  your  memory,  I'm  a 
retired  pressman — used  to  do  American  politics  for 
The  World  until  an  uncle  died  out  West." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  took  up  the  instructions  in  a 
perfectly  natural  tone,  saying: 

"We  live  very  quietly  and  know  few  people. 
Neither  Luke  nor  I  are  fond  of  society." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  Vawdrey  said.  "You  mean,  your 
acquaintance  is  limited?" 

"We  know  the  people  you  and  your  friends 
don't,"  Johns  summed  up. 

"Quite  so." 


[188] 


CHAPTER  IV 

last  five  miles  of  the  road  was  very  rough, 
and  the  car  did  not  reach  Gains  till  nearly 
one  o'clock.  As  it  drew  up  at  the  door  Mrs.  Vaw- 
drey  and  Ethel  came  out  to  meet  it. 

"So  glad  you've  come  back,  Mr.  Drury,"  Ethel 
called. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  answered.  "London 
in  August  isn't  very  gay;  and  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done,  so  I  got  oft  as  soon  as  I  could." 

"No  news  of  the  burglars,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  an  oat." 

"My  dear,"  Vawdrey  said  to  his  wife,  "let  me 
introduce  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  and  Mr,  Luke  Johns — 
friends  whom  I  met  at  Niagara  last  year.  I  found 
them  in  the  train  at  Montrose  and  persuaded  them 
to  come  here  for  a  few  days  before  going  further 
north." 

"Mrs.  Vawdrey?"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  purred,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  answered. 
She  was  accustomed  to  unexpected  arrivals,  for  her 
husband  often  brought  business  friends  home  with 
him. 

"My  daughter,"  Vawdrey  said. 

"I'm  proud  to  set  foot  in  Scotland,  Miss  Vaw- 
drey," Luke  Johns  announced.     "The  place  from 
which  my  ancestors  sailed  for  America." 
[189] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"That  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago,"  Ethel 
said  in  a  voice  of  quiet  surprise.  She  had  no  sar- 
castic intention,  but  this  square  little  man  looked  so 
far  removed  from  a  Scottish  ancestry. 

"Oh,  before  my  day,"  Johns  answered.  "In 
this  country  you  come  over  with  William  the  Con- 
queror, don't  you  ?  In  America  we  come  over  with 
the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  Well,  I  reckon  we  all  swung 
on  the  same  bough  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

Ethel  laughed,  but  Mrs.  Vawdrey  looked 
shocked. 

"Luncheon  will  be  ready  in  half  an  hour,"  she 
said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Luke  Johns.  "Let  me  show 
you  your  room.  Tom,  will  you  look  after  Mr. 
Johns?" 

"Come  into  the  billiard-room,"  Vawdrey  said. 
"I  daresay  you'd  like  a  drink  after  the  long  drive." 

"Thanks.  See  you  later,  Miss  Vawdrey,"  Johns 
said. 

Leslie  Eraser  was  practising  the  anchor-stroke 
by  himself  and  looked  up  as  they  entered. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said  to  Vawdrey.  "You 
were  off  early  this  morning." 

"Yes.  Our  friend  McVitie  was  leaving,  and  I 
took  him  to  the  train.  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Luke 
Johns — Mr.  Eraser." 

Eraser  shook  hands  languidly.  For  a  moment 
his  eyes  rested  on  Johns  with  a  look  of  perplexed 
inquiry;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  presently  re- 
sumed his  game. 

"What'll  you  have — whiskey?"  Vawdrey  asked, 
[  190] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

going  to  a  side-table,  where  some  bottles  and 
glasses  were  set  out. 

"Thanks.     One  finger  and  plenty  of  soda." 

"Is  that  right?  Excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you? 
I  must  just  say  a  word  to  the  chauffeur." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Eraser,  to  make  conversa- 
tion, asked  Johns  from  what  part  of  America  he 
came. 

"I'm  from  New  York.  I  was  just  saying  to 
Miss  Vawdrey  that  I  was  proud  to  set  foot  in 
Scotland,  the  country  of  my  ancestors." 

"Then  it's  your  first  visit?" 

"It  is.  We're  over  on  a  holiday,  and  when  Mr, 
Vawdrey  saw  us  on  the  train  this  morning  he 
pressed  us  to  stop  off  for  a  few  days.  He's  got  a 
nice  little  place  here." 

"Glad  you  think  so,"  Fraser  answered  coolly. 
He  did  not  appreciate  Luke  Johns'  description  of 
his  family  estate,  and  he  thought  him  a  very  bad 
specimen  of  an  American.  At  first  he  had  won- 
dered where  Vawdrey  could  have  picked  him  up 
until  he  remembered  that  in  business  one  had  to 
make  curious  friends. 

Johns  caught  the  inflection  of  his  voice,  and 
shot  a  keen  glance  at  him  over  the  rim  of  his 
tumbler. 

"Well,  isn't  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  certainly." 

"He  was  telling  me  he'd  just  bought  it." 

"Yes.    I  sold  it  to  him." 

"You?" 

[191] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Yes,"  Eraser  answered,  as  he  pulled  off  a  diffi- 
cult shot.  "In  this  country  it's  rather  the  fashion 
to  sell  one's  family  acres  unless  an  heiress  from 
your  side  comes  to  the  rescue." 

"That  so?  Sorry  you  find  our  ladies  so  unat- 
tractive," Johns  said,  with  a  laugh. 

Fraser  smiled  faintly  as  he  answered: 

"You  are  too  complimentary,  Mr.  Johns.  I'm 
afraid  that  a  truer  reason  was  that  I  had  nothing 
good  enough  to  offer." 

Johns  laughed  again,  saying: 

"You're  modest.  In  America  we  mark  the  goods 
high,  and  then  start  in  to  educate  opinion  up  to  our 
prices." 

"Really?" 

"Yes.  If  you've  got  a  stock  to  sell,  or  a  girl  to 
marry,  or  a  patent  food  to  boom,  you  advertise. 
Talk  about  it,  and  if  you  talk  loud  enough  you 
can't  fail." 

Vawdrey  now  returned,  and  carried  Johns  off 
to  show  him  his  room.  As  they  passed  along  the 
corridor  he  pointed  to  the  first  door  on  the  right, 
saying  in  a  low  voice :  "That  was  the  room.  And 
Pfeiffer  had  the  next  room." 

"Are  they  open?"  Johns  asked. 

"No." 

"Have  them  left  unlocked,  please.  I'll  look  in 
some  time." 

The  Luke  Johns  were  quartered  in  two  rooms 
at  the  end  of  the  corridor  on  the  first  floor,  on  the 
side  of  the  house  farthest  from  the  wing  and  from 
[  192] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

the  back  staircase.  Eraser  was  next  to  them,  and 
Ethel  Vawdrey's  bedroom  and  sitting-room  were 
opposite. 

"This  is  yours,"  Vawdrey  said. 

"Thanks." 

"Ring  if  you  want  anything." 

"I  will." 

When  Vawdrey  had  left  him  Luke  Johns  locked 
the  door  and  took  note  of  his  surroundings. 
Then,  going  to  the  inner  door,  which  led  into  his 
•vife's  room,  he  tapped. 

"Come,"  she  called. 

She  was  unpacking  her  dressing  bag,  and  he 
\vent  in  and  stood  by  her  in  silence.  Presently  he 
said: 

"Swell  house,  this." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  nodded. 

"Anything?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"No." 

Then  she  added:  "You'd  better  shave  before 
lunch." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  gong  sounded;  and 
when  they  went  down  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
already  in  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Vawdrey  briefly 
made  the  necessary  introductions,  and  put  Mrs. 
Luke  Johns  on  Vawdrey's  left.  Opposite  to  her 
was  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  to  whom  she  at  once  be- 
gan to  talk. 

"It's  pleasant  to  get  away  here  from  London," 
she  said.  "This  hot  weather  has  been  trying." 

"It  must  have  been,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
agreed.  "I've  never  been  in  town  in  August." 

[193] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Haven't  you  ?  No ;  I  suppose  no  one  is  except 
the  sightseers." 

"Nothing  deters  them,  especially  if  they  come 
from  your  country,  Mrs.  Johns,"  Vawdrey  joined 
in.  "Round  about  Westminster  Abbey  at  this 
time  of  year  there  are  more  Baedekers  to  the  square 
inch  than  anywhere  in  the  world." 

"That's  so,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  agreed,  with  a 
pleasant  smile.  "You  see,  there  are  a  lot  of  people 
on  the  earth,  and  there's  only  one  Westminster 
Abbey." 

"And,  if  I  may  return  the  compliment,  there's 
only  one  Niagara,"  Vawdrey  answered. 

"That's  real  prettily  said,  Mr.  Vawdrey.  Don't 
you  agree,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vawdrey  is  a  past  master  in  polite- 
ness. I  think  he  must  have  had  a  French  ancestor." 

Luke  Johns  was  making  himself  agreeable  to 
Hilda  Carew,  whose  open-air  style  of  beauty  had 
taken  his  fancy. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  America,  Miss  Carew?" 
he  asked,  when  they  had  exhausted  the  weather 
and  the  scenery. 

"Yes.  I  spent  a  winter  in  New  York  two  years 
ago,"  she;  answered.  "I  was  staying  w*ith  the 
Pierponts.  Do  you  know  them?" 

A  shadow  of  caution  came  into  Johns'  eyes. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  I  know  all  about 
them ;  they  belong  to  the  Four  Hundred,  and  their 
press-agent  lets  you  know  it  in  every  Sunday  edi- 
tion." 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Their  press-agent?" 

"The  man  who  writes  them  up.  Every  mil- 
lionaire has  one;  if  he  didn't  he'd  be  done  to  death 
by  interviewers  and  canvassers.  It's  a  deal  sim- 
pler to  pay  one  man  and  let  him  square  the  rest." 

"You're  chaffing!" 

"No,  I'm  dead  serious.  In  America,  if  you've 
got  any  money,  you've  got  to  advertise.  It's  good 
for  you  and  it's  good  for  trade,  and  it's  a  rule  of 
democracy  that  we  all  take  care  of  each  other.  So, 
if  you  won't  advertise  on  your  own  we  just  make 
you." 

"What  a  horrible  state  of  things  if  you  happen 
to  be  shy." 

"Shyness,  Miss  Carew,  is  selfishness  under 
another  name.  If  you  spend  twenty  thousand 
dollars  on  a  banquet,  and  don't  let  on  what  it  cost, 
it's  selfish.  But  if  you  give  out  an  interview,  with 
chunks  of  statistics  about  the  number  of  Chinese 
who  met  their  death  in  collecting  the  birds'  nests 
for  the  soup,  you're  amusing  a  million  people; 
and  that  seems  cheap  at  the  price." 

"Well,  I  never  heard  it  put  that  way  before." 

"No?  I  reckon  the  Pierponts  didn't  confide  in 
you  about  their  press  fixings — thought  you  under- 
stood it,  p'r'aps." 

"But  we  don't  do  that  sort  of  thing  here." 

"You're  behindhand,  I  allow.  But  you're  com- 
ing on.  At  the  hotel  I  was  reading  all  your  illus- 
trated journals.  They've  got  a  kind  of  outbreak 
of  Miss  Del  Douro's  photograph." 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"They  always  have.  She's  very  popular,  so  the 
papers  always  publish  them." 

"You've  guessed  right,  Miss  Carew,  but  you've 
got  your  sentence  mixed.  You  mean — they  always 
publish  them,  so  she's  very  popular." 

Hilda  laughed,  saying:  "I'm  afraid  you're  aw- 
fully cynical,  Mr.  Johns." 

"Not  cynical,  Miss  Carew;  but  I  dote  on  facts. 
Most  people  don't;  facts  make  'em  sick." 

Lady  Benyon,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
conversation,  now  joined  in. 

"Facts  are  so  unfashionable,"  she  drawled. 
"They  are  left  to  the  people  who  go  in  for  higher 
education  and  wear  sandals." 

"That  so?"  Luke  Johns  exclaimed,  with  twink- 
ling eyes.  "And  do  all  the  liars  wear  boots  ?  Now, 
I'd  never  have  guessed  that,  Lady  Benyon." 

"But  clothes  are  so  expensive,  haven't  you  no- 
ticed? I  always  know  whether  I  shall  like  any  one 
by  the  kind  of  hat  she  wears." 

Fraser  leant  across,  saying : 

"If  you  want  to  make  friends  with  the  mammon 
of  unrighteousness,  I  agree  that  hats  are  good 
evidence.  The  one  you  wore  on  Sunday  was  to  the 
meanest  intelligence  mammonish  and  unrighteous." 

"Glad  you  liked  it,"  Lady  Benyon  answered. 

"What's  everybody  doing  this  afternoon?" 
Vawdrey  asked. 

"Ethel  is  taking  Lady  Benyon  and  me  for  a  run 
in  the  motor,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  said. 

[196] 


"How  delightful!"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  cried 
quickly.  "I  just  love  motoring." 

"Come  with  us,  if  you'd  care  to,"  Ethel  said. 
"The  roads  aren't  good,  but  the  scenery's 
charming." 

"I'd  enjoy  it  enormously.  What  time  do  you 
start?" 

"The  car  is  ordered  for  a  quarter  past  three." 

"Is  any  one  inclined  for  a  walk?"  Vawdrey 
asked.  "To-morrow  we  shall  be  shooting  again, 
I  hope." 

Sir  Charles  Benyon  and  Arthur  Drury  agreed  to 
go  with  him.  Leslie  Eraser  excused  himself  on 
the  plea  of  having  letters  to  write,  and  Luke  Johns 
preferred  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  the  garden. 

As  they  went  out  from  lunch  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  lingered  in  the  hall  and  allowed  Drury  to 
join  her. 

"Is  there  any  news?"  she  asked. 

"No;  nothing.  And  I  suppose  nothing  has  been 
found  out  here?" 

"The  detective  says  he  knows  who  it  was;  but  I 
don't  believe  he  really  does,  because  he  has  gone 
away.  I  am  so  grieved  and  vexed  about  the  loss 
falling  on  you." 

"You  mustn't  think  about  that.  I'm  only  in  for 
a  bit  of  it,  and  it's  a  matter  of  business  and  can't 
be  helped." 

"I  feel  so  mean  about  it.  You  must  let  me  pay 
you  back  your  share." 

"Certainly  not.    I  couldn't  dream  of  it." 

[197] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Dear  boy !  You  mustn't  stand  on  your  dig- 
nity with  me.  Surely  we  know  each  other  well 
enough " 

"It's  delightful  of  you  to  say  so.  But  there's 
only  one  thing  I  can  ever  take  from  you,  and  I 
haven't  the  cheek  to  ask  for  that — yet." 

She  did  not  answer;  but  evidently  she  was  not 
displeased,  for  she  smiled  as  she  left  him  to  get 
ready  for  her  drive. 

Drury  felt  horribly  conscience-stricken.  He  was 
in  love  with  her,  and  he  had  allowed  these  wretched 
Americans  to  come  into  the  house  and  spy  upon  her. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  Porton  to  smooth  it  over 
and  say  that  they  were  after  one  of  the  servants, 
but  he  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  whom  the  underwriters  suspected,  and  they 
had  engaged  the  Luke  Johns  to  try  and  catch  her. 
Well,  at  all  events,  they  would  fail,  because  she 
was  innocent. 

Still,  he  hated  the  idea,  and  he  was  half  inclined 
to  make  confession  to  her,  or  to  go  to  Vawdrey 
and  insist  on  the  Luke  Johns  being  sent  away.  But 
he  reflected  that,  in  either  way,  he  might  create  a 
very  awkward  situation,  and,  on  the  whole,  he 
thought  it  was  better  to  say  nothing. 


[198] 


CHAPTER  V 

TV/TR.  and  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  were  very  clever 
*•**•  people.  They  had  made  their  way  in  the 
world  not  by  means  of  any  special  knowledge  or 
training,  but  by  the  continual  exercise  of  their  wits 
on  problems  of  human  conduct.  In  earlier  life 
Luke  Johns  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  stock  broker's 
office,  and  Mrs.  Johns  had  worked  for  one  of  the 
great  New  York  papers.  They  met  in  a  boarding- 
house  and  became  friendly  ;  and,  as  time  went  on, 
he  began  to  help  her  in  getting  up  information  for 
her  articles.  The  idea  of  starting  an  inquiry 
agency  came  to  them  after  a  rather  sensational 
case  in  which  they  succeeded  in  obtaining  some 
evidence  which  the  police  had  failed  to  get.  They 
saw  that  there  was  money  to  be  made  in  the  busi- 
ness, and,  as  they  had  then  been  engaged  for  some 
time,  they  married  and  set  up  as  private  detectives. 
Their  methods  were  not  those  of  the  Criminal 
Investigation  Department.  They  were  free  lances, 
without  legal  powers  or  recognized  status,  and  un- 
controlled by  any  regulations.  As  far  as  possible 
they  kept  within  the  law,  but  they  had  little  hesita- 
tion in  going  outside  it  if  their  object  was  suffi- 
ciently important  and  sufficiently  remunerative.  In 
such  an  event  they  trusted  to  luck  and  to  their 
astuteness  to  save  them,  and  one  or  the  other 
usually  served  them. 


Their  connection  was  never  large,  and  the  chief 
part  of  their  work  was  concerned  with  scandals 
rather  than  with  crimes.  They  were  not  thief- 
takers,  and  more  often  than  not  their  clients  wished 
to  avoid  the  publicity  of  the  courts,  either  because 
their  own  hands  were  not  clean  or  because  the 
position  of  the  culprit  rendered  exposure  undesira- 
ble. In  cases  of  this  kind  the  Luke  Johns  were 
often  able  to  effect  a  satisfactory  arrangement  and 
to  obtain  for  themselves  a  handsome  fee.  It  was 
not  a  mode  of  life  peculiarly  favorable  to  moral 
growth;  but,  as  Luke  Johns  once  remarked,  a 
man's  pocket  isn't  a  church  collecting  bag — he  can't 
fill  it  while  he's  singing  a  hymn. 

Their  methods  of  work  were  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  they  did  not  follow  the  recognized 
course  of  building  a  complete  proof  upon  a  con- 
junction of  apparently  trivial  facts.  A  half-burnt 
match  or  a  speck  of  mud  on  a  carpet  would  have 
meant  nothing  to  them;  and  even  if  they  had  hap- 
pened to  notice  such  things,  they  would  not  have 
known  how  to  use  them.  They  were,  indeed,  quite 
unpractised  in  the  science  of  constructive  proof,  and 
consequently  McVitie's  array  of  small  discoveries 
had  left  them  cold.  They  had  not  come  to  Gains 
to  find  out  whether  the  robbery  had  been  com- 
mitted by  an  expert  or  by  a  first  offender;  they 
wanted  to  recover  the  necklace  and  get  the  reward, 
or,  failing  that,  to  enjoy  their  holiday. 

It  will  be  evident,  then,  that  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  work  on  lines  which  were  amateurish  and 
[  200] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

unsound  if  judged  by  the  ordinary  police  stand- 
ards; and  any  one  who  is  familiar  with  the  subject 
will  ask  how  they  had  managed  to  carry  on. 
Briefly,  their  success  was  due  to  their  remarkable 
judgment  of  probabilities,  and  to  their  capacity  of 
selecting  from  them  the  right  conclusion.  It  was 
due  also  to  their  extreme  alertness  of  mind,  which 
enabled  them  to  collect  and  sift  evidence,  and  per- 
haps not  less  to  their  discernment  of  the  right  mo- 
ment for  parting  with  a  hundred  dollar  bill. 

Another  asset  which  they  possessed  was  an 
absolute  unscrupulousness  in  attaining  a  necessary 
object.  On  one  occasion  Luke  Johns  had  broken 
into  a  house  and  ransacked  a  desk  to  get  some  let- 
ters which  he  believed  to  be  there.  He  was  caught 
in  the  act,  but  the  letters  were  in  his  pocket,  and  his 
fee  was  two  thousand  dollars  with  immunity  from 
prosecution. 

Yet,  with  a  code  of  morality  elastic  enough  to 
sanction  anything  in  the  name  of  business,  Luke 
Johns  and  his  wife  were  good  citizens  in  private 
life.  They  were  frugal  and  hard-working,  and 
they  lived  in  almost  complete  seclusion,  seldom  in- 
dulging in  any  gaieties  beyond  an  occasional  visit 
to  the  theatre.  Both  were  fond  of  music,  and 
Mrs.  Johns  played  the  piano  exceedingly  well. 
Luke  Johns'  chief  hobby  was  philately. 

When  Mr.  Porton  asked  them  to  investigate  the 
loss    of    Mrs.    Dayrell-Wing's   necklace    they    ac- 
cepted because  a  week  in  Scotland  would  be  pleas- 
anter  than  in  their  London  hotel. 
[201] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

There  was  also,  of  course,  the  chance  of  earn- 
ing a  big  fee,  but  neither  of  them  felt  confident 
that  they  would  discover  the  thief.  For  the  busi- 
ness was  really  somewhat  outside  their  scope  except 
on  the  assumption  that  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was  an 
adventuress. 

In  discussing  it,  therefore,  they  expressly  ex- 
cluded the  possibility  that  the  robbery  had  been 
committed  by  some  one  outside  the  house,  and 
adopted  the  theory  that  the  necklace  had  not  been 
stolen  at  all,  or,  alternatively,  that  the  thief  was 
some  one  outwardly  respectable  who  was  living  in 
the  house.  When  they  learnt  from  McVitie  that 
circumstances  pointed  to  Pfeiffer  and  that  he  had 
gone  away,  they  excluded  him ;  because,  in  the  first 
place,  he  was  beyond  the  range  of  their  inquiry, 
and  because,  in  the  second  place,  he  was  too  ob- 
viously the  right  man.  For  almost  always  they 
found  it  was  wise  to  swim  against  the  stream  of 
popular  opinion,  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they 
were  justified.  Thus,  they  arrived  at  Gains  with 
their  field  of  action  intentionally  narrowed.  Not 
that  they  believed  that  the  criminal  was  necessarily 
to  be  found  within  the  limits  which  they  had  fixed; 
but,  if  he  were  outside  them,  they  could  do  nothing 
in  the  matter. 

Starting  on  that  basis,  the  first  thing  to  be  done 
was  to  examine  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  and  with  that 
object  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  had  lost  no  time  in  making 
friends  with  her,  and  had  gone  motoring  on  the 
afternoon  of  their  arrival. 
[  202  ] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

Luke  Johns,  meanwhile,  had  put  on  his  Hom- 
burg  hat  and  chosen  the  largest  kind  of  cigar  in 
Mr.  Vawdrey's  cabinet.  Thus  equipped,  he  saun- 
tered across  the  lawn  and  sat  down  in  a  long  chair 
facing  the  house. 

He  saw  Vawdrey  and  Sir  Charles  and  Drury 
set  out  for  their  walk,  and  he  saw  Mrs.  Vawdrey 
knitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room.  He  saw 
a  gardener  attending  to  the  flowers  in  the  stone 
vases  on  the  terrace,  and  he  saw  Gibson  sitting  in 
the  sun  on  a  Windsor  chair,  reading  the  news- 
paper. He  saw  everything  there  was  to  be  seen, 
and  all  the  time  his  active  brain  was  centred  upon 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  necklace.  Who  had  taken 
it?  Where  was  it?  And  the  further  question :  If 
A  or  B  took  it,  why  did  he  take  it?  What  was  the 
motive  power  behind  the  theft?  Was  it  envy? 
Perhaps.  Was  it  greed?  More  likely.  Or  was  it 
pure  viciousness,  exercising  itself  without  reason? 

For  the  moment  he  still  inclined  to  Mr.  Porton's 
belief  that  the  necklace  had  not  been  stolen.  He 
had  been  warned  that  nothing  was  known  of  Mrs. 
Dayreli-Wing  save  that  she  had  appeared  in  Lon- 
don about  two  years  ago,  and  that  she  lived  as  if 
she  had  a  great  deal  of  money.  From  that  to 
classifying  her  as  an  adventuress  was  but  a  small 
step;  and,  in  his  cynical  judgment,  it  told  against 
her  that  she  was  attractive  and  very  smartly 
dressed.  An  adventuress  in  last  year's  frock  would 
be  an  incredible  variation  of  the  wolf  in  sheep's 
clothing. 

[  203  ] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

He  finished  his  cigar  without  finding  an  answer 
to  his  questions,  and,  getting  up,  he  strolled  into 
the  house.  He  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  and  halted 
at  the  top.  The  corridor  was  deserted,  and  he 
walked  along  it  to  the  left,  which  was  in  the  op- 
posite direction  to  his  room.  One  or  two  doors 
were  open,  and  he  went  in,  moving  as  quietly  as  a 
cat.  One  room  he  identified  as  Sir  Charles  Ben- 
yon's  from  a  dressing-bag  initialed  UC.  B."  In 
another  he  saw  some  letters  addressed  to  Miss 
Carew.  It  was  just  as  well  to  know  where  every 
one  slept. 

He  returned  to  the  head  of  the  staircase  and 
went  on  toward  his  own  room.  Then,  with  a  quick 
glance  before  and  behind  him,  he  opened  the  door 
of  Pfeiffer's  room  and  went  in.  McVitie  had  told 
him  that  the  room  had  been  thoroughly  searched, 
and  he  did  not  intend  to  go  over  the  ground  again. 
Nor  did  he  see  much  object  in  searching  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing's  room ;  for,  if  the  necklace  had  been 
hidden  there,  it  was  certain  that  she  would  have 
taken  it  with  her  when  she  moved.  All  he  did, 
therefore,  was  to  take  a  general  survey. 

On  reaching  his  own  room  he  unlocked  a  suit- 
case which  he  had  not  allowed  the  footman  to 
unpack.  It  contained  a  curious  assortment  of 
things,  such  as  are  not  usually  found  necessary  for 
a  country-house  visit.  An  old  pair  of  black  trou- 
sers, a  sleeved  Cardigan  jacket,  black  slippers  with 
felt  soles,  a  revolver  and  some  cartridges,  an  electric 

[204] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

torch,  a  porcelain  slate  with  pencil  and  sponge,  a 
small  tool  pad  and  an  oil  can. 

He  took  the  oil  can  and  went  to  the  door.  After 
making  sure  that  no  one  was  in  the  corridor  he 
carefully  oiled  the  hinges  and  the  lock,  working 
the  door  backward  and  forward  until  it  opened 
without  a  sound.  Then  he  went  through  the  same 
process  with  the  door  of  his  wife's  room. 

After  replacing  the  oil  can  he  locked  up  the  suit- 
case and  washed  his  hands.  Then  he  went  down- 
stairs and  joined  Mrs.  Vawdrey  in  the  drawing- 
room. 


[205] 


CHAPTER  VI 

DURING  the  motor  drive  Mrs.  Luke  Johns 
took  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the  conversation 
and  said,  as  she  looked  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  full  in 
the  face: 

"Mr.  Vawdrey  was  telling  us  about  your  dread- 
ful loss,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing.  HQW  could  it  have 
happened?" 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  did  not  flinch  or  change 
color. 

"I  really  don't  know  anything,"  she  answered, 
"except  that  the  necklace  was  stolen  while  I  was 
asleep." 

"Some  one  got  into  your  room?  And  you  slept 
through  it?  That  was  real  plucky  of  you." 

"Oh,  I  can't  claim  to  be  plucky.  I  should  have 
been  frightened  to  death  if  I  had  woke  up." 

"Well,  you  must  have  a  clear  conscience  to  sleep 
like  that.  I'm  sure  I'd  wake  at  anything." 

"That's  so  curious,  because  I'm  not  at  all  a 
sound  sleeper." 

"Aren't  you?  Well,  that  does  make  it  more 
puzzling.  And  the  police  haven't  caught  the  man, 
have  they?" 

"No." 

"Mrs.  Luke  Johns  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full 
of  sympathetic  interest,  saying : 

"It  seems  impossible  you  shouldn't  have  heard 
[206] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

him.  Are  you  sure  it  was  taken  ?  Couldn't  it  have 
got  slipped  into  a  drawer  or  underneath  some- 
thing?" 

"I  thought  so  at  first,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
answered,  with  limpid  candor.  "But  I  searched 
everywhere.  And,  besides,  I  know  I  put  it  in  its 
box  the  night  before,  and  the  box  was  found  in  the 
passage,  you  know." 

"Is  that  so?  Well,  I  shall  sleep  with  my  door 
locked  to-night,  though  I  haven't  got  anything 
worth  stealing.  I'd  die  of  fright  if  any  one  got  in." 

"My  door  was  locked.  The  horrible  detective 
kept  pestering  me  to  say  it  wasn't,  but  I'm  quite 
certain  about  it." 

"I  can't  bear  police,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  said, 
with  a  little  shudder. 

"They're  excellent  in  their  place,  at  crossings 
and  so  on,"  Lady  Benyon  remarked. 

"You're  insured,  aren't  you,  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing?"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Then  will  you  buy  another  necklace?" 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  thought  the  question  rather 
impertinent  and  she  answered  coldly : 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it.  I  suppose  I  shall 
when  I  get  the  money." 

"They  can  buy  one  for  you,  if  they  like,  can't 
they?"  Ethel  asked. 

"Can  they?  I  don't  mind  that,  as  long  as  they 
let  me  choose  it." 

When  they  returned  to  Gains  tea  was  waiting 
[207] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

in  the  hall,  and  Luke  Johns  was  sitting  beside  Mrs. 
Vawdrey  discussing  the  relative  merits  of  poker 
and  patience.  The  walking  party  appeared  a  few 
minutes  later. 

As  it  was  the  first  really  fine  afternoon  for  more 
than  a  week,  every  one  went  into  the  garden  as  soon 
as  tea  was  over. 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  seemed  to  find  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  society  congenial,  for  she  attached  herself 
to  her,  and  left  Drury  to  follow  with  Ethel.  Johns 
accompanied  Mrs.  Vawdrey  on  a  visit  to  the  hot- 
houses, and  the  slight  surprise  which  she  had  felt 
at  her  husband  having  brought  him  to  Gains  began 
to  wear  off  as  they  talked.  In  his  own  phrase,  he 
was  making  good  with  her;  for  he  had  quickly 
caught  the  shade  of  disapproval  in  her  earlier  man- 
ner, and  he  thought  it  wise  to  make  a  friend  of  her. 
It  was  easy.  He  could  be  soft-voiced  and  deferen- 
tial when  he  wished,  and  he  was  experienced  in 
adapting  his  conversation  to  his  audience. 

Drury  was  not  at  all  pleased  at  Mrs.  Luke 
Johns'  attempt  to  ingratiate  herself  with  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing,  for  he  knew  exactly  its  object. 
Again  he  cursed  himself  for  having  allowed  his 
hands  to  be  tied  by  assenting  to  the  Johns'  presence 
in  the  house  as  guests.  It  was,  he  felt,  an  odious 
situation;  but  if  he  warned  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
now  she  would  quite  justly  turn  on  him.  He  could 
do  nothing — at  least,  not  openly.  But,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  he  was  determined  to  protect  her,  and 
with  that  intention  he  left  Ethel  and  hurried  after 
[208] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

her.  His  manner  gave  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  a  hint 
that  she  was  in  the  way,  and,  when  it  suited  her, 
she  could  always  take  a  hint.  Pleading  fatigue 
after  her  journey,  she  went  indoors  to  rest  until 
dinner. 

Johns,  returning  from  the  hot-houses,  noticed 
her  absence  and  went  to  find  her.  He  shut  himself 
into  his  dressing-room,  and  tapped  on  the  door 
which  led  into  her  room. 

"Come,"  she  called. 

"You're  tired?"  he  asked. 

"A  little.    So  was  some  one  else." 

"Anything?" 

She  nodded. 

He  withdrew  into  his  own  room,  and,  opening 
his  suitcase,  he  took  out  the  porcelain  slate.  Then, 
going  back,  he  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

Although  the  Luke  Johns  were  not  trained  in 
detective  methods,  and  were  lacking  in  powers  of 
scientific  deduction,  they  had  evolved  for  them- 
selves a  number  of  rules  suited  to  the  conditions  of 
their  work.  One  of  the  most  important  of  these 
was  based  on  the  theory — which,  if  unsupported 
by  natural  history,  is  nevertheless  true — that  walls 
have  ears.  Their  rule,  accordingly,  was  that,  as 
far  as  possible,  they  would  never  discuss  the  case 
of  the  moment  within  the  danger  zone  except  in  the 
open  air.  Whatever  had  to  be  said  indoors  was 
written  on  the  slate  and  sponged  out  immediately. 
Thus,  the  conversations  between  them  at  Gains 
which  will  be  reported  hereafter  were  not  conversa- 
[209] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

tions  by  word  of  mouth,  but  were  written  on  the 
slate. 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  took  the  pencil  from  her  hus- 
band and  wrote : 

"Watch  Drury.  He  is  in  love  with  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing  and  gets  mad  when  I  speak  to  her." 

"Will  he  tell  her  what  we're  after?"  Johns 
wrote. 

"He  will,  unless  we're  careful.  Keep  away  from 
her." 

There  was  a  pause  while  Johns  sponged  the 
slate.  Then  she  took  it  again  and  wrote : 

"I  don't  fancy  she  did  it." 

"Why?" 

"I  put  it  to  her  straight  and  sudden  in  the  motor. 
She  didn't  turn  an  eyelash." 

"That's  not  evidence,  if  she's  an  old  hand." 

"She's  not.    She's  a  society  fool." 

"You're  guessing." 

Mrs.  Johns  laughed,  saying: 

"I  always  do." 

Johns,  who  was  very  fond  of  his  wife,  and  had 
a  great  admiration  for  her  intelligence,  laughed 
also.  Then,  becoming  serious  again,  he  wrote : 

"Go  on  guessing,  but  don't  forget  the  facts.  I've 
looked  at  the  rooms.  The  bolts  and  locks  are  O.K., 
and  McVitie  got  it  that  both  doors  were  bolted  in- 
side, and  that  no  one  got  in  by  the  windows." 

"If  you're  swallowing  McVitie's  facts,  it  lies 
between  her  and  Pfeiffer." 

"We're  not  taking  any  of  Pfeiffer." 
[2ip] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"That  leaves  us  with  the  woman.  And  I  say 
she  didn't  do  it." 

"I  say  she  did." 

"I'd  believe  her  rather  than  McVitie's  facts. 
We  know  those  police  facts." 

"I  don't  agree.  I'd  like  to  have  time  to  follow 
her  up.  This  is  a  fool's  game,  coming  here  for  a 
week,  and  then  dropping  out." 

"The  fool's  game  is  getting  set  on  an  idea  be- 
cause you  can't  find  another  one." 

"Can  you?'' 

"Not  yet.  Wait,  and  keep  your  eyes  open.  I 
don't  say  McVitie's  facts  aren't  all  right,  but 
maybe  he's  holding  them  by  the  wrong  end." 

Luke  Johns  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for 
a  minute.  Then  he  sat  down  again  and  wrote : 

"I'd  like  to  look  through  her  things.  Guess  I'll 
slip  in  and  turn  them  over  to-morrow." 

"It's  risky.  There's  such  a  lot  of  servants 
about." 

"It's  worth  chancing.  A  letter  or  two  might 
put  us  on  the  track." 

"Very  well;  but  I  don't  believe  you'll  find  any- 
thing. If  she's  in  it,  she's  a  top-holer.  There 
won't  be  anything  lying  about." 

"What  about  Lil?"  Luke  Johns  wrote,  with  a 
grin  on  his  face. 

Lil  was  a  "top-holer"  who  had  engaged  the  Luke 
Johns'  attention  a  year  or  two  before.  Johns  had 
called  upon  her,  ostensibly  to  ask  her  to  sit  to  a 
photographer,  and  while  waiting  in  the  drawing- 

[211] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

room  he  had  discovered  the  secret  drawer  in  her 
bureau  containing  some  useful  correspondence. 
Very  few  people  ever  learnt  the  reason  of  her  sud- 
den disappearance  from  the  most  exclusive  circle 
of  Boston  society. 

"All  right.    Have  it  your  own  way,"  Mrs.  Luke 
Johns  wrote. 

"Then  give  me  a  nod  when  the  road's  clear." 
While  the  Luke  Johns  were  reviewing  probabili- 
ties on  their  slate,  Ethel  Vawdrey  was  writing  to 
Willie   Pfeiffer.      She  had  heard  from  him   that 
morning,   and  his  letter  lay  open  before  her: 

"Mv  DEAREST: 

"All  the  way  up  in  the  train  I  have  been 
thinking  what  it  can  possibly  be  which  has 
come  between  us.  Some  one  has  slandered 
me  to  your  father — that  is  plain;  and  if  I 
knew  what  was  said,  and  who  said  it,  I 
should  act  promptly.  You  know,  and  you 
won't  tell  me ;  and  you  send  me  away  from 
you,  though  in  the  same  breath  you  say  you 
do  care  for  me. 

"I  am  accused  of  something  by  some 
one.  Is  that  fair?  Heaven  knows  I  have 
committed  follies  and  worse  in  my  life,  and 
for  what  I  have  done  I  can  take  my  punish- 
ment as  well  as  any  man,  after  I've  had  a 
chance  of  defending  myself.  But  I  refuse 
to  sit  down  under  a  nameless  charge  and 
surrender  everything  which  means  happi- 
ness to  me. 

[212] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Put  yourself  in  my  position.  Imagine 
that  /  had  come  to  you  last  night  and  had 
said:  'I  have  heard  something  about  you 
which  I  must  not  tell  you.  Until  you  dis- 
prove it  we  must  part.'  Would  you  not 
have  insisted  on  knowing  what  it  was?  And 
should  I  not  have  been  bound  to  tell  you, 
unless  I  meant  to  make  an  excuse  for  get- 
ting rid  of  you?  I  cannot  believe  you 
meant  to  do  that,  for  you  were  nothing  but 
sweet  and  kind,  and  the  very  tone  of  your 
voice  told  me  you  were  suffering  as  much 
as  I  was. 

"Darling,  for  mercy's  sake  have  mercy. 
I  can  face  an  accusation  which  is  fairly 
made,  and,  if  I  cannot  justify  myself  to 
you,  I  can  kneel  to  you  for  forgiveness. 

"You  have  sent  me  away,  telling  me  to 
come  back  in  six  months.  Have  you 
thought  what  it  means?  Have  you  any 
conception  what  six  months  of  life  under 
the  shadow  of  an  unknown  charge  must 
be  ?  And  when  it  is  over,  I  know  too  well 
what  will  happen.  They  won't  let  you 
marry  me.  This  slander,  whatever  it  is,  is 
an  absolute  lie.  They  are  simply  gaining 
time,  so  as  to  put  pressure  on  you  and  force 
your  inclination. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  let  them  ?  We  were  so 
happy,  and  you  are  letting  them  wreck 
our  happiness  forever.  Darling  one,  break 

[213] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

away  from  it  all  and  come  to  me.  We  can 
be  married  at  once,  and  I  swear  you  shall 
never  have  a  day's  regret.  When  it  is  done 
and  settled  your  father  will  resign  himself 
to  the  inevitable,  and  you  can  make  it  up 
with  him.  Darling  one,  come  to  me.  A 
little  courage,  and  we  shall  be  together 
again.  Surely,  you  won't  hang  back  when 
we  love  each  other  as  we  do. 

"Always  your  devoted, 

"W.  P." 

Ethel  found  it  a  very  difficult  letter  to  answer. 
She  had  read  it  a  score  of  times,  and  now,  as  she 
took  up  her  pen,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  What 
he  said  was  true.  He  ought  to  be  told,  but  her 
father  was  insistent  against  it  until  the  charge  could 
be  proved.  She  herself  was  positive  that  it  never 
would  be  proved,  because  she  believed  passionately 
in  her  lover's  innocence;  and  for  this  reason  she 
agreed  with  her  father  that  it  was  better  not  to  tell 
him.  Further  inquiry  would  convince  McVitie 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  then  the  wretched 
thing  would  die  a  natural  death.  To  marry 
Pfeiffer  at  once  accorded  much  more  with  her  in- 
clination than  to  tell  him  about  McVitie's  sus- 
picions; but  she  had  promised  her  father  not  to  do 
this,  and  she  would  not  break  her  word.  How, 
then,  could  she  write  so  as  to  comfort  her  lover  as 
she  craved  to  do?  She  dashed  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  and  began,  at  first  slowly,  and  then  with 
greater  fluency: 

[214] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"DEAREST: 

"I  want  so  to  make  you  understand  that 
nothing  is  altered  between  us,  and  that  the 
difficulty  which  for  the  time  is  keeping  us 
apart  will  very  soon  be  over.  Will  you  not 
be  satisfied  if  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you  as 
much  and  more  than  ever,  and  that  my  faith 
in  you  has  never  wavered  and  never  will 
waver? 

"You  are  right  in  saying  that  I  ought  to 
tell  you  why  father  sent  you  away.  But  I 
have  promised  him  that  I  will  not  yet,  and 
I  think  it  is  really  better  to  say  nothing 
when,  in  a  few  weeks,  or  even  a  few  days, 
there  will  be  no  need  to  say  anything. 

"Do  not  think  hardly  of  me  for  my 
silence,  for  I  have  as  much  as  I  can  bear 
without  the  dread  of  losing  your  love.  Be 
patient,  and  know  always  that  in  my  heart 
you  stand  first  and  alone.  When  you  know 
all  you  will  forgive  all. 

"Good-by,  dear, 

"E.  V." 

Tom  Vawdrey  would  have  been  seriously  dis- 
turbed had  he  known  that  Ethel  had  written  such 
a  letter;  for,  in  the  event  of  Pfeiffer  being  arrested, 
it  was  essential  that  her  name  should  be  kept  out 
of  the  scandal.  He  was  counting  upon  Pfeiffer 
being  tried  and  convicted,  so  that  Ethel  might  be 
finally  delivered  from  him.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
no  further  evidence  could  be  obtained,  Vawdrey 

[215] 


was  determined  to  use  all  the  force  at  his  command 
to  prevent  her  from  marrying  him.  He  looked 
forward  to  the  necessity  with  anything  but  con- 
fidence, for  he  knew  her  spirit  too  well  to  feel  cer- 
tain of  success;  and  although  he  kept  a  cheerful 
countenance  before  his  guests  his  heart  was  heavy 
with  anxiety. 


[216] 


CHAPTER  VII 

'"T^HE  weather  seemed  to  have  taken  a  definite 
•*•  turn  for  the  better,  and  the  next  morning  the 
shooters  made  an  early  start.  Luke  Johns  accom- 
panied them,  but  he  declined  Vawdrey's  offer  of  a 
gun,  saying  that  he  liked  every  one  too  much  to 
put  their  lives  in  peril.  In  reality,  he  was  far  from 
being  anxious  to  go,  and  long  before  he  got  back 
he  was  more  tired  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life ; 
but  both  he  and  his  wife  agreed  that  it  would  look 
more  natural  for  him  to  join  the  other  men. 

"Say,  Mr.  Vawdrey,"  he  said,  as  he  sprawled  in 
a  deep  chair,  sipping  a  cup  of  tea,  "I  reckon  I'll 
stay  behind  to-morrow  if  it's  not  putting  you  out. 
Heather's  nice  to  look  at,  but  give  me  a  paved 
sidewalk  for  comfort." 

Accordingly,  on  the  following  day  he  stayed  in 
bed  till  noon,  and  then  smoked  a  cigar  on  the  lawn 
until  lunch  was  ready.  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  had 
found  a  guide-book  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  with 
the  sight-seeing  instinct  of  an  American,  she  had 
whipped  up  Ethel  to  take  her  to  a  ruined  castle 
some  ten  miles  off.  They  must  start  at  half-past 
two,  and  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  and  Lady  Benyon 
had  agreed  to  accompany  them.  Thus,  the  way 
was  left  clear  for  Luke  Johns  to  examine  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing's  room,  and  not  long  after  the  car 
had  started  he  went  upstairs. 
[217] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

The  room  which  she  had  occupied  since  the  bur- 
glary was  at  the  end  of  the  left-hand  corridor,  be- 
yond the  turning  which  led  to  the  wing  and  the 
back  stairs.  He  walked  slowly  toward  it,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  of  the  corridor 
window.  Then  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 
Turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  began  a  systematic 
search. 

He  had  been  at  work  for  nearly  half  an  hour 
without  finding  anything  of  interest,  and  he  had 
sat  down  at  the  writing-table  with  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  travelling  despatch  case  in  front  of  him. 
The  lock  presented  no  difficulty,  and  he  was  be- 
ginning quietly  to  peruse  the  numerous  letters 
which  he  found  when  suddenly  his  body  stiffened. 

Some  one  was  coming  along  the  corridor,  and  a 
voice,  loud  and  high-pitched,  said: 

"It's  too  bad  the  car  breaking  down.  I  was 
just  set  on  seeing  that  castle." 

It  was  his  wife,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing 
who  answered  her. 

Luke  Johns'  eyes  narrowed  into  slits  and  the 
lines  round  his  mouth  deepened  and  grew  taut.  He 
was  trapped,  and  his  wife  was  giving  him  warning. 
There  was  no  escape,  and  it  was  a  million  to  one 
that  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was  coming  to  her  room. 
Quickly  he  pushed  the  letters  back  into  the  despatch 
case  and  snapped  the  lock.  Then,  with  a  tread 
even  more  catlike  than  usual,  he  went  toward  the 
door.  Would  his  wife  invent  a  pretext  to  get  the 
[218] 


woman  away?  She  was  trying,  for  he  heard 
her  say: 

"Oh,  I  promised  to  show  you  that  lace  I've  got. 
Won't  you  come  and  see  it  now?" 

Luke  Johns  held  his  breath  for  the  answer. 

"Thanks,  but  I'll  just  lay  down  my  hat  first," 
he  heard.  And  a  moment  afterward  the  handle  of 
the  door  turned. 

"It's  locked,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  exclaimed. 
"Celeste,  are  you  in  there?" 

"Oh,  it  can't  be  locked,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  said 
in  a  perfectly  controlled  voice.  "It  must  have 
blown  to  and  got  stuck." 

"It  seems  locked.  There's  one  of  the  maids ;  I'll 
call  her." 

"Let  me  try,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  said,  taking 
hold  of  the  handle. 

Luke  Johns  was  trapped.  In  less  than  a  minute 
suspicion  would  be  aroused,  and  some  one  would 
be  summoned  to  break  open  the  door.  He  went 
swiftly  to  the  window,  wondering  if  he  could  drop 
out  unseen,  but  one  of  the  gardeners  was  at  work 
close  at  hand.  He  had  but  a  few  seconds  to  make 
up  his  mind — should  he  open  the  door  and  con- 
fess, or  should  he  hold  out  as  long  as  he  could  in 
the  hope  that  some  chance  might  favor  him?  He 
looked  keenly  about  him  as  he  reviewed  the  possi- 
bilities. His  mind  was  strained  to  its  utmost  limit. 
A  plan  came  to  him  which  held  some  faint  hope  of 
success.  At  all  events,  it  was  better  than  immediate 
surrender,  and  in  a  flash  his  decision  was  taken. 
[219] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

He  crept  to  the  door  and  noiselessly  turned  the 
key  backward.  Then  he  dived  under  the  bed. 

His  wife  heard  the  click  of  the  lock  and  guessed 
that  he  had  made  himself  safe.  She  half  turned  the 
handle  and  pressed  against  the  door,  saying: 

"My!    It  is  stiff." 

Then,  turning  it  further  and  pressing  again, 
she  opened  it. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  cried.  "It  was  only 
stuck." 

She  looked  into  the  room,  and  then  stood  aside 
for  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  to  pass. 

"Thanks  so  much,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  said. 
"I  quite  thought  it  was  locked.  I'll  come  along  to 
your  room  in  a  minute  or  two." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  would  have  liked  to  have 
waited  for  her,  but  she  could  not  very  well  do  so, 
and  with  a  farewell  remark  she  went  to  her  own 
room. 

Luke  Johns,  flat  on  his  back  underneath  the  bed, 
wondered  whether  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  was  sus- 
picious. Her  tone  told  him  nothing.  He  could 
not  see  her,  for  the  valance  touched  the  floor  all 
round,  but  he  could  hear  her  moving  about.  Then 
there  was  an  interval  of  silence,  terminated  at 
length  by  a  sound  on  the  dressing-table.  She  had 
put  something  down — a  comb  or  a  brush  probably. 

As  the  minutes  passed  he  became  more  at  ease, 
for  he  inferred  that  she  was  satisfied  that  the  door 
had  not  been  locked.  Otherwise,  she  would  have 
looked  about  the  room  to  see  if  any  one  were 

22° 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

hidden.  His  anxiety  thus  allayed,  he  was  able  to 
reflect  that  his  search  had  been  fruitless,  and  that 
he  might  have  saved  himself  trouble  and  risk  by 
taking  his  wife's  advice.  He  had  scarcely  expected 
to  find  the  necklace,  for  its  possession  would  have 
been  too  great  a  danger;  but  he  had  hoped  to  light 
upon  something  of  a  compromising  nature  which 
would  serve  either  as  a  clue  or  a  weapon.  His 
duty  to  his  clients  was  to  secure  the  withdrawal  of 
the  claim  for  twenty  thousand  pounds  under  the 
policy  of  insurance,  and  for  that  purpose  evidence 
of  a  secret  liaison  might  be  as  effective  as  the  proof 
that  the  necklace  had  not  been  stolen.  He  knew 
how  to  play  a  good  card,  and  so  long  as  he  earned 
the  reward,  he  was  not  particular  as  to  the  means 
he  adopted. 

But  he  had  found  nothing.  The  drawers  and 
cupboards  contained  only  an  unusual  quantity  of 
expensive  clothes;  in  her  jewel-case  there  were  half 
a  dozen  rings  and  bracelets  of  considerable  value; 
and  so  much  of  her  correspondence  as  he  had  had 
time  to  read  did  not  indicate  a  woman  who  lived 
on  her  wits  or  indulged  in  gallantry.  He  admitted 
that  everything  was  in  favor  of  her  innocence,  and 
he  began  to  wonder  whether  McVitie  was  not 
right  in  following  up  Willie  Pfeiffer. 

His  thoughts  were  recalled  abruptly  by  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  pushing  back  her  chair  and  walking 
across  the  room.  His  heart  jumped  as  he  wondered 
whether  he  had  moved  and  so  attracted  her  atten- 
tion. But  she  opened  the  door  and  went  out, 
[221] 


closing  it  behind  her.  He  lay  still  for  two  or  three 
minutes.  Then  he  crawled  from  beneath  the  bed, 
listening  for  any  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  corridor. 
Reassured  by  the  silence,  he  opened  the  door  an 
inch,  listened  again,  and  walked  out.  He  met  no 
one,  and  went  slowly  downstairs  into  the  hall.  It 
was  empty,  and  he  passed  on  to  the  billiard-room, 
where  he  helped  himself  to  a  cigar  and  began  to 
practise  some  of  the  fancy  shots  which  Sir  Charles 
had  been  showing  him  on  the  previous  evening. 

He  was  interrupted  presently  by  Gibson,  who 
told  him  that  the  shooters  had  returned  and  that 
tea  was  ready  on  the  lawn. 

"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing,  I  hope  you  enjoyed  visit- 
ing the  castle,"  he  said,  as  he  came  up  to  the  group 
round  the  table. 

"But  we  never  got  there,"  his  wife  broke  in. 
"The  car  collapsed." 

"That  so  ?    Well,  that  was  real  vexatious." 

"I  don't  think  I  mindjed  particularly,"  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  said.  "The  roads  are  so  bumpy  in 
Scotland." 

"You  mustn't  run  down  Scotland  before  Mr. 
Johns,"  Fraser  said  rather  maliciously.  "His  an- 
cestors came  from  there." 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  ancestors?"  Luke 
Johns  retorted  rather  hotly.  "Yours  were  Scotch, 
too,  weren't  they?  Guess  it  ain't  a  disgrace  to 
come  from  Scotland." 

"None  whatever.  But  mine  made  the  mistake 
of  staying  here." 

[  222  ] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"I  suppose  they  couldn't  borrow  enough  for 
their  fares  on  the  Mayflower,"  Vawdrey  laughed. 

"I've  often  wondered,"  Eraser  answered.  "And 
yet  they  borrowed  such  an  awful  lot  for  other 
purposes." 

Luke  Johns  had  turned  away.  He  seemed  more 
ruffled  by  Eraser's  sarcasm  than  was  necessary. 

"Is  any  one  going  to  play  croquet?"  Sir  Charles 
asked.  He  was  an  enthusiast. 

"Not  I,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  said.  "I  think  it's 
such  a  dull  game." 

"Oh,  come  now!" 

"It  is.  It  takes  me  hours  to  get  through  a 
hoop." 

"I  think,"  Vawdrey  said  gravely,  "that  the  game 
lost  most  of  its  attraction  when  ladies  gave  up 
wearing  crinolines  and  white  stockings." 

"Father's  remarks  are  always  verging  on  the 
indelicate,"  Ethel  put  in. 

"Skirting  the  indelicate,"  Eraser  amended. 

Sir  Charles  was  the  only  one  who  had  not 
laughed.  Now  he  said  slowly : 

"Why  are  white  stockings  indelicate?  I  thought 
housemaids  always  wore  'em." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Vawdrey  cried,  "how  do  you 
know  that?" 

"Seen  'em  cleaning  the  doorsteps,"  Sir  Charles 
explained. 

He  appeared  to  be  surprised  at  the  shout  of 
laughter  which  went  up. 

At  dressing  time,  when  the  Luke  Johns  reached 
[223] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

their  room,  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  turned  to  her  hus- 
band with  a  question  in  her  eyes.  He  fetched  the 
slate  at  once  and  wrote  on  it : 

"All  safe." 

"Where  were  you?"  she  wrote. 

"Under  the  bed.    Thanks  be,  she  didn't  look." 

"She  didn't  suspect.     I  faked  the  door  well." 

"Grand!" 

"I  was  frightened  to  death  at  coming  back.  I 
tried  to  keep  her  in  the  garden,  and  when  she 
wouldn't,  1  screamed  out  as  we  went  up  the  stairs, 
because  I  guessed  you  weren't  through." 

He  grinned  as  he  wrote:  "When  I  heard  you  I 
was  scared  so  soft  you  might  have  poured  me  out 
of  a  jug." 

"Did  you  find  anything?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

"I  told  you  so." 

"Reckon  you're  about  right.  I  found  her  diary, 
but  it's  filled  up  with  footling  drivel  about  Drury. 
She  means  to  marry  him." 

"Then  that  proves  it.  He's  no  catch  for  a  high- 
flier." 

"Still,  I'm  not  dead  certain.  I  kind  of  feel  she 
isn't  white  all  through." 

"Well,  stop  now.     We'll  talk  afterwards." 

Luke  Johns  locked  up  the  slate  and  began  to 
put  on  his  dress  suit.  His  appearance  in  it  would 
have  thrown  doubt  on  his  Scotch  ancestry,  even  if 
it  had  been  supported  by  the  entire  College  of 
Heralds. 

[224] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ITH  a  change  of  partners,  it  fell  out  that 
Luke  Johns  took  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  in  to 
dinner.  He  found  her  absent-minded  and  disin- 
clined to  talk;  and  after  one  or  two  attempts  he 
turned  to  Hilda  Carew,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  him. 

"I  must  compliment  you,  Miss  Carew,"  he  said, 
"if  I  may,  on  that  shooting  costume  you  wore  to- 
day. Cunning,  I  call  it." 

"Do  you?  I  should  have  thought  serviceable 
was  a  better  word." 

"That's  understood.  But  it  didn't  miss  the 
charm  of  feminine  adornment,  either.  In  America, 
when  you're  told  a  woman  looks  serviceable,  you 
may  reckon  she  looks  plain." 

Hilda  laughed  as  she  answered: 

"If  all  Americans  are  as  polite  as  you  are  I'm 
sure  they'd  never  tell  her  so." 

"But  they'd  think  it.  In  this  world  you  think  a 
lot  of  things  which  you  don't  say." 

"And  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Johns,  you  say  a  lot  of 
things  which  you  don't  think." 

"Now  you're  chaffing  me,  Miss  Carew.  I'll 
have  to  tell  you  the  story  of  George  Washington." 

"Why?    What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  couldn't  tell  a  lie.  That's  rare,  but  I'm 
made  the  same  way." 

[225] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Don't  you  find  it  inconvenient?" 

"No  more  'an  George  did.  He  was  a  bright 
boy,  and  he  knew  the  best  way  out  of  a  conversa- 
tional dead-end  when  his  father  was  reaching  for 
a  stick." 

"Oh,  I  see.  If  there  hadn't  been  a  stick,  George 
Washington  would  never  have  been  President  of 
America." 

"That's  stretching  it;  but  I  dessay  the  stick 
helped." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you're  a  bit  like  George 
Washington,  and  in  any  case  I  haven't  got  a  stick; 
but  you  may  as  well  take  back  'cunning.'  ' 

"But  that's  truth." 

"What  is?"  Vawdrey  asked.  "Has  any.  one 
been  indiscreet?" 

"Mr.  Johns  said  that  my  shooting  get-up  was 
cunning,"  Hilda  Carew  answered.  "Under  cross- 
examination  he  admits  that  he  meant  I  looked  very 
plain  in  it;  so  I  invited  him  to  retract  the  ad- 
jective." 

"Now,  Miss  Carew,  you're  acting  unfairly. 
I've  never  in  my  life  admitted  that  any  lady  looked 
plain.  Ask  my  wife." 

"Oh,  he  has  an  eye,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  said. 

"He  has  an  eye,"  Vawdrey  repeated.  "So  had 
Cyclops,  but  I  never  heard  he  was  appreciative  of 
the  fair  sex." 

"Guess  I've  got  two  of  everything  needful," 
Johns  protested. 

[226] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"I  said  so — double-tongued,"  Hilda  put  in 
smartly. 

"Well,  there !  I'm  done  either  way.  Seems  to 
me  I  ought  to  be  in  Barnum's — one  eye  and  two 
tongues;  they'd  give  me  a  thousand  dollars  a 
week." 

Every  one  laughed  except  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing, 
who  was  eating  her  dinner  in  silence.  Vawdrey, 
noticing  her  aloofness,  leant  forward  to  rally  her, 
saying: 

"What's  up,  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing?  You  don't 
seem  to  find  our  poor  friend's  infirmities  amusing." 

"Oh,  but  they  are,  of  course,"  she  answered, 
rousing  herself.  "Only  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else." 

"Do  unbosom.  The  thoughts  of  the  heart  are 
desperately " 

"I'm  frankly  bothered,"  she  said,  straightening 
herself  in  her  chair  and  looking  round  the  table. 

Every  one  turned  to  her,  their  attention  caught 
by  the  anxious  note  in  her  voice. 

"There's  something  very  odd  about  this  house," 
she  went  on.  "I  don't  understand  it." 

"Ghosts !"  Vawdrey  asked. 

"I  can't  think  so;  they  seem  too  intelligent. 
Ghosts  wouldn't  have  taken  my  necklace." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  lost  anything 
else?"  Vawdrey  asked,  suddenly  grave. 

Every  one  listened  eagerly.  The  Luke  Johns 
avoided  each  other's  eyes.  Their  faces  were  per- 
[227] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

fectly  controlled  and  gave  no  hint  that  they  saw 
themselves  on  the  edge  of  a  catastrophe. 

"Not  as  far  as  I  know,"  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  an- 
swered. "But  this  afternoon,  when  we  came  back 
from  motoring,  I  found  I  couldn't  get  into  my 
room.  At  first  I  thought  the  door  was  locked,  and 
I  was  going  to  call  one  of  the  maids.  But  it  was 
only  stuck,  and  Mrs.  Luke  Johns,  who  was  with 
me,  pushed  it  open.  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it ; 
but  this  evening,  before  dinner,  when  I  went  to 
write  a  letter,  I  found  my  writing-case  had  been 
opened  and  my  letters  disturbed." 

Vawdrey  scowled  and  shot  a  keen  glance  at 
Luke  Johns,  who  at  that  moment  might  have  sat 
for  a  statue  of  innocence. 

"Then  some  one  was  there?"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns 
cried. 

"Evidently,  for  I  had  been  using  my  writing- 
case  just  before  I  went  out." 

"Didn't  the  door  make  you  suspicious?  Didn't 
you  look  about?"  Lady  Benyon  asked. 

"No,  it  never  occurred  to  me.  I  thought  the 
door  had  stuck." 

"But  it  wasn't  locked  or  I  couldn't  have  pushed 
it  open,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  said. 

"My  dear,  you  must  inquire  about  this,"  Vaw- 
drey said  to  his  wife. 

"I  can  hardly  think  one  of  the  servants " 

she  murmured. 

"Did  you   ever  suffer  from  predatory  ghosts, 
Fraser,  when  you  lived  here?"  Sir  Charles  asked. 
[228] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"No,"  Fraser  answered  shortly. 

Drury,  whose  face  was  as  black  as  a  thunder- 
cloud, was  glaring  at  Luke  Johns.  Like  Vaw- 
drey,  he  guessed  the  explanation  of  the  affair,  and 
with  less  discretion  he  was  on  the  point  of  denounc- 
ing the  Johns  forthwith.  Johns  perceived  the  dan- 
ger and,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  said: 

"Anyhow,  the  thief  didn't  get  anything  this 
time." 

"No,"  Drury  answered,  "but  I'd  like  to  horse- 
whip him." 

"Nothing  was  taken?"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  asked. 

"Not  as  far  as  I  can  see.  My  purse  was  in  a 
drawer  of  the  table,  but  that  hadn't  been  touched." 

"Oh,  hadn't  it !"  Luke  Johns  said  to  himself. 

"It's  very  distressing,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  sighed. 
"I  really  don't  know  what  to  do.  That  detective 
who  was  here  didn't  seem  to  be  of  any  use." 

"They  never  are,"  Sir  Charles  said. 

The  crisis  passed;  but  as  the  men  came  out 
from  dinner  Drury  drew  Luke  Johns  on  one  side. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "let  me  tell  you,  you're 
an  infernal  scoundrel.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  firm  I 
should  go  straight  to  Mr.  Vawdrey  and  have  you 
turned  out  of  the  house." 

"My  dear  sir,"  Johns  remonstrated,  laying  a 
gentle  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  drop  that.  And  take  your  hand  off 
my  arm." 

"My  dear  sir,  you're  making  a  big  mistake  in 
[229] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

using  that  tone,  and  you'd  make  a  bigger  one  still 
in  turning  me  out  of  the  house." 

"I  shouldn't  make  any  mistake  in  knocking  you 
down." 

"Yes,  you  would.    And  I'll  tell  you  why." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  why  and  I  don't  want  to 
speak  to  you  again.  You'll  be  good  enough  to 
keep  out  of  my  way  until  you  leave." 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  Mr.  Drury.  But 
give  me  a  minute  to  explain." 

"Damn  explaining,"  Drury  cried,  pushing  past 
him. 

Johns'  mouth  set  more  firmly,  and  the  apologetic 
expression  in  his  eyes  changed  in  a  flash  to  a  de- 
termined ferocity.  He  caught  Drury  by  the  arm 
and  swung  him  round  with  unexpected  strength. 

"See  here,"  he  said  in  a  hard,  biting  tone.  "If 
you  spoil  the  game  it  don't  matter  to  me  near  so 
much  as  it  will  to  you.  I'm  put  here  by  you  and 
your  partners  to  find  that  necklace,  and  I  reckon 
I've  got  the  best  chance  of  any  one.  Well,  give  the 
show  away  and  tell  your  partners  you've  done  it 
if  you're  so  set  on  it." 

Drury  was  furious,  but  Luke  Johns'  eye  quelled 
him;  and,  though  he  clenched  his  fist,  he  did  not 
use  it. 

"You  won't  find  the  necklace  by  insulting  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing,"  he  said  hotly. 

"No,  I  sha'n't,"  Johns  agreed  in  a  milder  tone. 
"Since  I  went  through  her  room  this  afternoon  I 
know  that  for  certain ;  and  I  give  you  my  word 
[230] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

of  honor,  I  sha'n't  interfere  with  her  again.    Does 
that  satisfy  you?" 

"No,  it  doesn't.  Nothing  would,  except  to  teach 
you  a  lesson  you  wouldn't  forget  in  a  hurry." 

"My  dear  sir,  do  be  reasonable.  You've  been 
right  all  along — I  admit  it  and  I  apologize.  But 
I  had  to  go  by  my  instructions.  That's  over,  so 
why  can't  we  work  together?" 

"You  mean,"  Drury  said,  drawing  back  a  step, 
"she's  to  be  free  from  your  attentions  altogether?" 

"Absolutely.     She  doesn't  exist." 

Drury  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said  in 
a  surly,  unwilling  voice: 

"If  you're  speaking  the  truth,  I  won't  for  the 
present  do  anything  to  hinder  you." 

"Then  we're  friends.     Shake." 

"I  don't  think  we  need  do  that,"  Drury  an- 
swered, stiffening. 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Drury,"  Johns  said,  with 
a  laugh.  "Leave  me  alone;  that's  all  I  want." 

"And  that's  all  you'll  get.  I  don't  like  your 
methods,  Mr.  Johns,  and,  I  may  say,  I  don't  par- 
ticularly like  you." 

"Sorry,"  Johns  answered  indifferently,  as  they 
walked  together  toward  the  drawing-room. 

When  Luke  Johns  followed  his  wife  to  bed  he 
found  her  waiting  up  for  him,  and  he  at  once  got 
out  the  slate.  She  took  the  pencil  from  him  and 
wrote : 

"Drury  all  but  split  on  us  at  dinner.  Have  you 
settled  him?" 

[231] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Yes,"  Johns  wrote  in  his  turn.  "I  stroked  him 
down  and  promised  to  leave  the  woman  alone." 

"She  wasn't  worth  the  risk." 

"I  thought  differently.    You  were  right." 

"Did  Vawdrey  say  anything?" 

"Not  yet.    Expect  he  will  to-morrow." 

"Are  we  safe?" 

"I  think  so.    But  what's  to  be  done  next?" 

"I  see  no  pointer." 

"Nor  do  I." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  took  the  pencil,  but  she 
thought  for  some  moments  before  she  began  to 
write : 

"Let's  reason  it  out  from  the  start,"  she  wrote 
at  last. 

Luke  Johns  nodded  assent. 

"The  necklace  was  taken  from  her  room,  which 
leads  into  Pfeiffer's  room,  same  as  these  two  do. 
Roth  passage  doors  were  bolted  inside,  her  win- 
dows were  shut  down,  and  McVitie  claims  that  no 
one  got  in  at  Pfeiffer's  window." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  her  husband,  who 
nodded  again. 

"She  lost  it  right  enough.  That's  agreed,"  she 
wrote.  "Then,  on  McVitie's  facts  it  looks  like 
Pfeiffer." 

He  took  the  pencil  from  her  and  answered: 

"On  McVitie's  facts,  yes.  And,  if  they  are 
facts,  we're  not  on  in  this  scene  at  all.  But  I'm  not 
dead  certain  they  are." 

[232] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"I  never  was.  That  Scotch  detective  isn't 
springy  enough." 

"You're  right.  He's  missed  something.  Any- 
way, his  facts  are  no  use  to  us,  because  we  aren't 
concerned  with  Pfeiffer." 

"Then  we'd  best  forget  them.  We'll  agree 
some  one  did  get  into  the  room  and  out  again, 
though  we  don't  know  how." 

"We'll  agree.     Who  was  it?" 

They  leant  back  and  looked  at  each  other.  As 
they  had  said,  they  saw  no  pointer;  for,  assuming 
that  McVitie  was  wrong,  and  that  some  one  had 
got  into  the  room,  the  field  of  inquiry  became  in- 
definitely enlarged.  It  was  the  more  enlarged  by 
reason  of  the  great  value  of  the  necklace.  Thou- 
sands of  people  are  honest  over  a  ten-pound  note 
because  it  does  not  tempt  them;  but,  as  the  prize 
increases,  the  pressure  of  temptation  increases.  A 
necklace  worth  twenty  thousand  pounds  has  a  wide 
radius  of  attraction  and  may  prove  irresistible  even 
to  an  archdeacon. 

After  a  long  pause  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  took  up 
the  pencil  and  wrote  slowly : 

"Let  us  confine  ourselves  to  the  people  we  are 
in  touch  with,  ruling  out  all  other  possibilities,  just 
the  same  as  we've  ruled  out  Pfeiffer  and  McVitie's 
facts.  On  that  plan  we  rule  out  every  one  not  in 
the  house." 

Luke  Johns  made  a  low  sound  of  assent  and 
watched  her  go  on. 

"We  can't  get  at  the  servants,  unless  we  have  a 

[233] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

clue  on  any  particular  one.  That  leaves  us  with 
three  Vawdreys,  two  Benyons,  the  Carew  girl, 
Eraser,  and  Drury." 

"Wipe  out  Mrs.  Vawdrey,"  Johns  wrote.  "She 
hasn't  got  grit  enough  to  steal  a  nickel.  What's 
the  matter  with  the  daughter?" 

"Not  likely.  She  couldn't  ever  wear  the  neck- 
lace. How  much  do  we  know  of  Vawdrey?" 

"Porton  said  he's  worth  two  or  three  million 
pounds.  No  difficulties  suggested,  and  it  isn't  more 
than  a  few  months  since  he  bought  this  house." 

"Did  you  ask  if  he  speculated?" 

"I  hinted  it.  Porton  says  he's  high  and  dry 
above  trouble." 

"The  Benyons — I  asked  Mrs.  Vawdrey  about 
them.  He's  a  do-nothing  fool,  and  owns  miles  of 
real  estate  in  Manchester.  Plays  croquet  most  of 
his  time.  She  drives  around  and  spends  the 
money.  That  frock  she  wore  to-night  cost  five 
hundred  dollars.  Everything  from  Paris,  and  two 
pearls  in  her  ears  worth  ten  or  fifteen  thousand." 

Johns  deliberated.    Presently  he  wrote : 

"She  looks  genuine,  but  I'd  like  to  know  more. 
Find  out  who  her  friends  are." 

"I'll  try;  but  she's  rather  beyond  our  reach." 

"Who's  Miss  Carew?"  Johns  wrote,  after 
another  pause. 

"Daughter  of  a  rich  business  man." 

"Fraser?" 

"Don't  know  anything." 

"He   sold  this  house  to   Vawdrey,   and  talks 

[234] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

about  being  poor,  so  I  guess  he's  got  a  sackful.  He 
makes  me  sick.  Did  you  hear  him  chip  me  about 
my  ancestors?" 

"That  leaves  Drury." 

"He's  in  on  the  insurance,  but  his  share  isn't 
much." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  took  the  slate  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

"Seems  to  me,"  she  wrote,  "we  couldn't  know 
less  about  them  if  they  were  Chinese.  Any  one  of 
them  might  be  in  it,  but  there's  nothing  to  tell." 

"It's  fair  hopeless.  Somehow  I  never  thought 
we'd  do  any  good  to  ourselves  beyond  getting  a 
week's  board." 

"That's  what  it  looks  like.  Still,  keep  your 
eyes  open." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  they 
began  to  undress  with  the  deepening  certainty  that 
the  three  thousand  dollars'  fee  was  not  likely  to  be 
earned. 


[  235  1 


CHAPTER  IX 

TN  the  billiard-room  that  night,  after  Luke  Johns 
-*-  had  retired,  Vawdrey  took  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  Drury. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  dropping  into  a  chair  beside 
him,  "this  is  pretty  hot  of  our  American.  I  hardly 
know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  do  whatever  you  like,'* 
Drury  answered.  "I  hate  the  fellow,  and  I  was 
always  against  his  coming  here." 

"Well,  but  he's  acting  on  your  behalf,"  Vawdrey 
said,  surprised  at  Drury's  vindictive  tone. 

"On  behalf  of  my  firm,  I  suppose,  and  of  the 
other  underwriters.  /  didn't  want  him  to  come; 
but  they  thought  it  was  a  good  thing  to  do  and 
they  wouldn't  listen  to  me." 

"Oh,  I  see.     I  thought  you  wanted  it." 

"Not  a  bit." 

"I  needn't  say  it's  most  distasteful  to  me.  I 
only  agreed  because  Porton  made  it  a  personal 
matter  and  because  I  didn't  want  to  put  difficulties 
in  your  way." 

"You've  been  extraordinarily  kind  about  it. 
But,  for  my  own  part,  I'd  much  rather  you  had 
refused." 

"I  didn't  know  that.  Of  course,  if  your  firm 
had  seen  McVitie  first  they  wouldn't  have  gone  to 
the  expense  of  sending  the  Johns  here." 

[236] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"They  wouldn't  have  sent  them  in  any  case  but 
for  a  preposterous  idea  which  some  one  started 
that  the  necklace  hadn't  been  stolen  at  all." 

"Not  stolen  ?    But  what  bosh !" 

"They  suspected  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"Yes,  it's  abominable.  Any  one  who  knew  her 
could  have  told  them  that." 

"And  that's  why  little  Johns  went  through  her 
letters.  I  say,  I  can't  stand  that.  I  think  I  shall 
tell  him  to  clear  out." 

"It  doesn't  matter  now  whether  you  do  or  not. 
I  had  a  pretty  serious  talk  with  him  after  dinner, 
and  he  professes  to  be  satisfied  about  her,  and  says 
he  won't  interfere  with  her  again." 

"Who's  he  after  next?  I  suppose  he'll  be  rifling 
my  writing-table." 

"Heaven  knows.  I  don't  believe  he's  got  a  clue 
of  any  sort,  and  if  you  want  to  get  rid  of  him  you'd 
better  do  so." 

"Well,  I'll  see.  In  any  case,  it's  only  a  few 
more  days;  and,  if  I  fire  him  out,  he'll  go  back 
and  say  that  I've  prevented  him  from  succeeding. 
By  the  way,  I  had  a  wire  from  McVitie  this  even- 
ing, saying  he's  coming  here  to-morrow.  I  don't 
know  whether  that  means  that  he's  got  something 
definite.  If  he  has,  I  think  I'll  tell  Johns  and  his 
missis  to  move  on." 

Sir  Charles  Benyon,  deserted  by  Eraser,  who  had 
gone  to  bed,  now  interrupted  them. 

"I've  been  askin'  Eraser  about  the  family 
spooks,"  he  said.  "There's  a  great-uncle  who  mur- 

[237] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

dered  his  wife;  that's  as  near  as  any  of  'em  got 
to  burglary." 

"I  suppose  nothing  less  than  a  murder  was  con- 
sidered gentlemanly,"  Vawdrey  answered,  smiling. 
"Even  that  fine  profession,  the  road,  was  thought 
a  trifle  infra  dig." 

"Lot  of  blackguards,  /  think,  Turpin  and  his 
gang,"  Sir  Charles  remarked  somewhat  irrele- 
vantly. 

"No  doubt;  but  how  polite.  Drury,  I  think 
business  men  like  you  and  me  might  get  a  lot  of 
wrinkles  from  the  chronicles  of  the  highwaymen. 
They  possessed  the  art  of  extracting  money  from 
other  people's  pockets  in  the  nicest  possible  way. 
No  prospectus  or  guinea-pig  directors;  simply  in- 
dividual ability." 

"But  sometimes  the  gallows." 

"Oh,  well,  yes.  But  now  they  wouldn't  dare  to 
give  you  more  than  six  months  in  the  first  division ; 
that's  the  maximum,  unless  you're  a  very  clumsy 
thief." 

"I'm  off,"  Sir  Charles  said,  with  a  yarn. 
"Shootin'  to-morrow,  I  s'pose?" 

"Rather.  But  I'll  have  to  join  you  later;  the 
detective  is  coming  to  see  me." 

After  breakfast  next  morning  Vawdrey  was 
sauntering  in  the  garden  with  Ethel  when  McVitie 
arrived.  Gibson  brought  him  out  to  them. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "I  had  business  in 
this  direction,  so  I  thought  I'd  call." 

[238] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Glad  to  see  you.  I  don't  think  you  met  my 
daughter  when  you  were  here  last." 

Ethel  barely  acknowledged  the  introduction. 
McVitie,  without  a  word,  raised  his  hat  an  inch, 
and  turned  again  to  Vawdrey,  saying: 

"I'd  like  to  speak  with  you  when  convenient." 

"You  can  talk  now.  My  daughter  knows  about 
the  affair." 

McVitie  turned  a  cold  eye  upon  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  had  no  fancy  for  fashionable  young 
ladies,  and  in  his  heart  he  called  Vawdrey  a  fool 
for  letting  her  know  anything  about  the  inquiry. 
He  kept  silent,  meaning  thereby  to  give  her  a 
second  hint  to  withdraw.  Vawdrey,  however,  said 
rather  insistently: 

"Well,  I  hope  you  have  got  definite  informa- 
tion?" 

Thus  pressed,  McVitie  deemed  it  better  not  to 
make  a  mystery;  and,  in  truth,  he  had  nothing 
particular  to  say,  and  had  only  come  to  report 
progress  and  to  find  out  what  the  Luke  Johns 
were  doing  at  Gains. 

"We  are  doing  all  that  is  possible,"  he  began 
with  some  reserve. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  Vawdrey  asked. 

"We're  making  searching  inquiries  in  London." 

"Oh!" 

"And  we're  keeping  the  suspect  under  close 
observation." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Pfeiffer?"  Ethel  asked  in  a 

[239] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

tone  which  gave  McVitie  the  feeling  that  she  had 
thrown  a  tumblerful  of  cold  water  in  his  face. 

"I  do." 

"And  what  have  you  found  out?  We  shall  be 
particularly  interested  to  know." 

"We  have  found  nothing  at  present,  though  we 
expect  to  do  so.  The  man  has  been  watched  since 
his  arrival  in  London;  but  he  seems  cautious,  and 
is  evidently  waiting  for  a  while  before  he  gets  in 
touch  with  his  confederate." 

Ethel  flushed  up  hotly  and  turned  upon  McVitie, 
saying:  "You  seem  very  certain  that  there  is  a 
confederate.  What  are  your  reasons?" 

McVitie  felt  the  annoyance  of  a  man  who,  in 
the  middle  of  a  discussion,  is  asked  to  explain  some 
elementary  principle.  This,  he  thought,  was  what 
came  of  bringing  women  into  a  matter. 

"Mr.  Vawdrey  knows  my  reasons,"  he  answered 
coldly. 

"If  you  haven't  anything  to  add  to  what  you 
told  Mr.  Vawdrey  I  can  only  say  that  I  think  them 
absurdly  insufficient.  From  what  he  tells  me,  your 
only  proof  against  Mr.  Pfeiffer  is  that  you  can't 
see  how  any  one  else  got  into  the  room." 

"I  did  not  say  I  couldn't  see,"  McVitie 
answered,  with  a  sensible  decrease  in  politeness. 
"I  said  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  have  got 
in." 

"I  think  it's  very  much  the  same  thing;    you 
mean  you  couldn't  find  a  better  explanation.     That 
doesn't  prove  there  wasn't  one." 
[240] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"No;  and  I'd  be  glad  of  any  plausible  sugges- 
tion. It's  easy  to  criticise." 

"It  may  be  easy,"  Ethel  rapped  out,  "but  some- 
times it's  useful." 

McVitie  drew  in  a  trifle  and  spoke  more  mildly. 

"I  should  be  as  pleased  as  any  one,"  he  said,  "to 
clear  Mr.  Pfeiffer.  But  at  present  my  duty  is  to 
follow  up  the  clues  I  have.  I  think  you  will  agree 
there." 

"Perhaps.  But  I  cannot  compliment  you  on  the 
way  you  are  doing  it.  You  may  be  interested  to 
hear  that  Mr.  Pfeiffer  is  quite  aware  he  is  being 
watched." 

"Have  you  warned  him?"  McVitie  asked 
sharply. 

"I  have  not." 

"Then  some  one  else  has." 

"No  one  except  your  clumsy  detectives  them- 
selves. I've  just  had  a  letter  from  him,  and  this  is 
what  he  says." 

She  opened  the  letter  which  she  was  holding  in 
her  hand  and  read: 

"Everything  is  so  puzzling.  ...  I 
am  almost  certain  that  I  am  being  shad- 
owed. Three  or  four  times  I  have  seen  the 
same  man  loitering  in  Jermyn  Street,  and 
to-day  at  the  club,  when  I  looked  out  of  the 
window,  he  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road.  I  am  waiting  for  a  chance  of  tack- 
ling him." 

[241] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

McVitie  frowned  and  fingered  his  moustache. 
To  himself  he  said:  "They've  put  a  fool  on  the 
job." 

"If  Mr.  Pfeiffer's  conscience  was  easy  he 
mightn't  take  so  much  notice,"  he  remarked  aloud. 

Ethel  folded  the  letter  and  walked  away. 

When  she  had  left  them  Vawdrey  said: 

"I  suppose  there's  still  no  doubt  in  your  mind? 
The  thing's  serious,  because,  as  you  may  have 
guessed,  Mr.  Pfeiffer  is  rather  an  intimate  friend." 

"I  supposed  so,  from  Miss  Vawdrey's  attitude," 
McVitie  answered  sourly.  "I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  stole  the  necklace." 

"I  must  say,  he's  the  last  man  in  the  world  I 
should  have  suspected  of  it." 

"It  generally  is." 

"You  are  quite  sure,  then?" 

"As  far  as  it's  possible  to  be.  I'm  not  going 
on  surmise;  there's  the  proof  that  no  one  else  had 
access  to  the  room." 

"So  you  say." 

McVitie  saw  that  Vawdrey  was  still  doubtful, 
and  his  intolerance  of  unofficial  stupidity  made  him 
add: 

"I  can't  drop  the  matter  now.  We  intend  to 
prosecute." 

Vawdrey  did  not  like  his  tone  and  answered 
sharply : 

"It's  time  enough  to  talk  of  prosecution  when 
you've  got  some  one  to  prosecute." 
[242] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"You  have  no  cause  to  be  dissatisfied.  No  time 
is  being  wasted." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  suggest  that,"  Vawdrey  answered 
more  quietly.  "Perhaps  I'm  a  little  impatient,  but 
naturally  we're  all  rather  upset." 

McVitie's  irritation  subsided.  In  professional 
matters  he  liked  to  keep  "the  public,"  as  he 
called  the  victims  of  a  crime,  in  their  place,  and  he 
was  pleased  at  having  had  the  opportunity  of  check- 
ing Vawdrey's  interference. 

"I  infer  your  American  inquiry  agents  have  not 
picked  up  anything?"  he  asked  in  a  dry,  sarcastic 
voice. 

"No,  confound  'em  !  I  wish  they'd  never  come," 
Vawdrey  answered. 

"You  remember  I  wasn't  consulted.  I  might 
have  advised  you  against  them." 

"I  suppose  you  would." 

"We  don't  rely  on  people  of  that  kind." 

"Ah!" 

Vawdrey  was  bored  by  McVitie's  official  egotism 
and  showed  it  by  the  monosyllable. 

"Well,"  McVitie  drawled,  in  his  intolerable 
Scotch  manner,  "I'll  just  see  him  before  I  leave." 

He  thought  it  would  do  no  harm  to  make  Luke 
Johns  admit  that  he  was  doing  nothing. 

"Here  he  comes,"  Vawdrey  said,  calling  to 
Johns  as  he  appeared  on  the  terrace. 

Luke  Johns  approached  without  undue  eager- 
ness. He  had  not  heard  that  McVitie  was  ex- 
pected, or  he  would  have  kept  out  of  the  way;  for 

[243] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

just  then  McVitie  was  one  of  the  last  people  in 
the  world  whom  he  wished  to  see.  He  was  feeling, 
as  he  expressed  it,  low.  He  and  his  wife  had  come 
to  Gains  without  much  expectation  of  earning  the 
reward,  but  there  had  been  a  possibility  of  doing 
so  sufficient  to  give  an  incentive  to  work,  and  as  the 
possibility  vanished,  his  spirits  fell.  McVitie's 
presence  did  not  make  him  any  happier.  "I  told 
you  so,"  is  hard  to  hear  in  any  language;  in  a 
drawling  Scotch  accent  it  is  exceptionally  hard. 

"Mr.  McVitie  would  like  a  word  with  you  be- 
fore he  goes,"  Vawdrey  said,  as  he  turned  on  his 
heel. 

"How  are  you?"  Johns  said,  with  affected 
heartiness.  "Reckon  you've  brought  some  news?" 

McVitie  put  forward  a  limp  hand,  saying : 

"I'm  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Johns.  I  thought 
I'd  ask  if  you've  been  making  progress." 

"I  should  say  some.  But  we're  not  through 
yet." 

"Indeed?" 

"How's  your  end  panning  out?"  Johns  asked, 
with  an  air  of  patronizing  encouragement  which 
took  the  edge  off  McVitie's  self-confidence. 

"We're  just  going  slowly,  a  point  at  a  time." 

"Well,  that's  a  good  rule,  if  you  can't  take  two 
together." 

"We  official  detectives  have  to  work  carefully." 

"That's  so.  Look  three  times,  and  then  don't 
leap  if  you  can  help  it." 

[244! 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"I  take  it,  you've  got  nothing  to  tell  me?"  Mc- 
Vitie  asked,  ignoring  the  criticism. 

"Well,  we've  proved  you  right  in  one  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"The  necklace  was  stolen." 

A  contemptuous  smile  crossed  McVitie's  face. 

"You're  making  sure  of  your  groundwork,"  he 
said.  "I  was  thinking  you'd  have  got  farther, 
perhaps." 

"I'm  real  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  I  didn't 
know  you  were  counting  on  us.  Must  you  go? 
I'll  see  you  later,  perhaps." 

On  the  whole,  Luke  Johns  was  not  sure  that  he 
had  come  off  worst  in  the  encounter. 


[245] 


CHAPTER  X 

'  I  A IME  went  slowly  by  at  Gains,  undisturbed  by 
-*•  any  events  except  the  daily  shooting  expedi- 
tion and  the  long  dinner  which  followed  in  the 
evening.  The  spirits  of  the  party  showed  a  ten- 
dency to  rise,  as  the  robbery  ceased  to  be  a  topic  of 
conversation;  but  they  came  short  of  their  former 
riotous  gaiety.  Pfeiffer,  leader  of  the  revels,  was 
missed,  and  the  Luke  Johns  were  too  evidently 
strangers  not  to  cause  a  feeling  of  restraint.  As 
Hilda  Carew  said  to  Lady  Benyon,  intelligent  con- 
versation was  handicapped  when  every  one  was  on 
the  lookout  for  Mr.  Johns'  next  Americanism. 

Ethel,  too,  had  hard  work  to  appear  cheerful 
and  perform  her  duties  as  the  daughter  of  the 
house.  She  heard  once  or  twice  from  Pfeiffer  and 
answered  his  letters,  but,  on  her  father's  advice,  she 
ignored  what  he  said  about  being  watched,  and 
would  not  refer  to  McVitie's  allegation  against 
him.  Vawdrey  had  counselled  her  that  it  was  bet- 
ter to  let  things  take  their  course  for  the  present, 
and  she  was  so  certain  of  his  innocence,  and  of  its 
speedy  vindication,  that  she  too  believed  it  wiser 
to  keep  silence.  But  in  the  meantime  she  was  very 
unhappy. 

Luke  Johns  and  his  wife  were  past-masters  in 
the  art  of  keeping  their  ends  up,  and  they  showed 
themselves  ready  to  make  cheerful  conversation  at 
[246] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

any  hour.  Failing  other  listeners,  they  would  talk 
to  Gibson,  or  to  a  housemaid,  or  to  one  of  the 
gardeners,  and  they  collected  an  astonishing 
amount  of  information  about  every  one.  No  trifle 
seemed  too  insignificant  to  excite  their  interest,  and 
in  one  way  or  another  their  receptive  attitude  in- 
duced most  people  to  say  more  than  they  intended. 
But,  when  all  was  said,  they  found  nothing  that 
would  serve  as  a  clue  to  the  robbery,  and  in  their 
bedroom  the  writing  on  the  slate  was  lugubrious 
enough.  The  three  thousand  dollar  fee,  never  a 
very  substantial  possibility,  had  faded  like  the 
glow  of  a  fine  sunset.  And,  like  a  sunset,  the  more 
it  faded  the  more  attractive  it  seemed. 

"We  ought  to  spot  it,"  Luke  Johns  wrote  one 
night.  "I'd  take  my  oath  some  one  here  knows 
about  it.  It  doesn't  strike  me  as  an  expert  job." 

"There's  nothing  to  start  on,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns' 
pencil  answered. 

"Well,  think." 

"I  am  thinking.  I've  thought  till  my  head 
bursts." 

"So  have  I.  I've  walked  round  those  rooms  till 
I'm  dizzy,  and  I  can't  see  how  any  one  got  in  unless 
it  was  old  Nick  himself.  If  we  tumbled  to  that 
we  might  get  the  rest." 

With  a  sigh  he  rose  and  put  the  slate  away.  An 
insoluble  mystery,  with  those  three  thousand  dol- 
lars hanging  to  it,  was  enough  to  take  one's 
appetite  away. 

One  thing,  indeed,  they  learnt,  which  seemed  to 

[  247  ] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

th'row  some  light  on  the  robbery;  but,  while  it 
strengthened  their  belief  in  Pfeiffer's  innocence,  it 
gave  no  clue  definite  enough  to  help  them.  The 
information  came  from  Hilda  Carew,  who,  when 
talking  to  Luke  Johns  one  night  after  dinner,  men- 
tioned the  subject  of  practical  jokes. 

"They're  silly,  but  they're  rather  amusing,"  she 
said.  "We  had  some  here  when  we  first  came. 
Mr.  Pfeiffer,  who  was  here  then,  is  rather  good 
at  them  and  quite  conscienceless.  He  hid  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing's  diamond  necklace  and  pretended  it 
had  been  stolen;  but  as  it  was  stolen  the  day  after, 
that  rather  put  the  lid  on  jokes." 

"That's  queer,"  Johns  said,  with  quick  interest. 
"He  hid  it?" 

"Yes.  There  was  a  fearful  fuss — Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  almost  in  tears  and  every  one  rushing  about. 
They  kept  it  up  for  half  an  hour,  until  Mr.  Vaw- 
drey,  who  was  in  the  secret,  said  he  wasn't  going  to 
wait  dinner  any  longer." 

"Well,  in  America  I  reckon  a  man  would  be  well 
horsed  for  less  than  that.  It  wouldn't  strike  us  as 
humorous  to  make  a  woman  cry." 

"Oh,  in  Mr.  Vawdrey's  house  you  may  do  any- 
thing in  the  name  of  ragging.  When  I  was  stay- 
ing with  them  last  year  in  Yorkshire  there  was  a 
wretched  youth  who  used  to  blush  if  you  looked 
at  him.  We  gave  him  a  wretched  time.  One 
night  we  took  away  all  his  pajamas — and  he  had 
such  lots  of  them,  all  different  colors." 

Luke  Johns  grinned,  saying : 
[.248] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Guess  he  blushed  all  over  them." 

"Guess  he  did,"  Hilda  answered,  laughing. 
"Only  we  weren't  there  to  see." 

"You  seem  experienced,  Miss  Carew.  You 
might  post  me  up  some." 

"We  had  a  splendid  scoop  against  Mr.  Pfeiffer. 
That  was  before  he  hid  the  necklace,  and  we  were 
always  chaffing  him  because  he  snored." 

"How  did  you  know  he  snored?" 

"Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  said  so.  She  declared  she 
could  hear  him  through  the  wall.  So  Miss  Vaw- 
drey  bought  twelve  alarm  clocks — that  brassy, 
American  sort,  you  know." 

"I  know.  The  kind  you  let  off  when  your 
mother-in-law  dies,  just  to  make  sure  she's  ex- 
pressed through." 

"We  wound  them  all  up  and  set  them  for  every 
hour  from  two  to  six.  And  then  we  stuck  them 
about  his  room,  under  the  bed  and  in  the  cup- 
boards. And  he  slept  through  the  whole  twelve!" 

Johns'  expression  suddenly  changed,  and  the 
laughter  died  out  of  his  face. 

"Say,  you're  joking?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  fact.    Ask  Miss  Vawdrey." 

Johns  became  silent  and  preoccupied  and  seemed 
so  little  inclined  for  further  conversation  that 
Hilda  presently  left  him. 

Later,  upstairs,  he  and  his  wife  covered  the  slate 
many  times  over  in  discussing  the  clocks.  They 
agreed  that  the  incident  went  to  Pfeiffer's  credit 
in  so  far  as  it  supported  the  idea  that  some  one  had 

[249] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

entered  his  room  without  waking  him.  They 
agreed,  too,  that  either  McVitie  did  not  know 
about  it  or  that  he  was  a  bigger  fool  than  they 
thought. 

But  beyond  that  it  did  not  carry  them  far,  be- 
cause they  were  still  unable  to  discover  how  the 
rooms  had  been  entered.  The  evidence  that  the 
doors  were  locked  came  from  Pfeiffer  and  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing,  and  was,  therefore,  beyond  ques- 
tion; and  the  absence  of  footmarks  on  the  gravel, 
proving  that  no  one  had  come  through  the  win- 
dows, was  a  point  on  which  McVitie  would  cer- 
tainly be  trustworthy.  Thus,  although  they 
doubted  his  inferential  fact  that  no  one  had  got 
into  the  room,  their  common  sense  obliged  them  to 
accept  his  basic  facts  about  the  doors  and  the  win- 
dows. While  admitting  that  everything  was 
against  it,  they  still  believed  that  some  one  had 
got  in;  but  the  solution  of  the  puzzle — if  there 
was  a  solution — was  too  hard  for  them. 

"There's  one  thing,  Mrs.  Johns  wrote.  "Who- 
ever did  it  knew  about  those  clocks.  He  knew  he 
could  go  through  Pfeiffer's  room  without  waking 
him." 

"Agreed.  And  that  means  it  was  some  one  in 
the  house — a  servant  or  a  guest." 

"And  that  means  it's  still  up  to  us  to  get  that 
reward.  McVitie's  chasing  moonshine;  no  one 
has  left  the  house  except  Pfeiffer.  This  is  the 
place  to  watch." 

"And  we'll  go  on  watching.  What's  wanted  is 
a  bit  of  luck." 

I  250  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 

day  for  the  break-up  of  the  party  was  ap- 
preaching.  The  Benyons  were  going  further 
north,  Hilda  Carew  to  an  uncle  in  Yorkshire,  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing  to  Aix-les-Bains,  and  Drury  back  to 
his  work  at  Lloyds.  Fraser,  too,  was  going  to 
London  on  the  way  to  join  his  mother  at  Dinard, 
where  she  had  a  villa.  Another  set  of  guests  was 
expected  at  Gains  on  the  day  of  departure. 

Every  one  was  to  leave  on  Monday.  On  the 
Sunday  morning  Luke  Johns  declined  Mrs.  Vaw- 
drey's  invitation  to  go  to  church  and  remained  by 
himself  in  the  garden.  His  temper  had  shortened 
with  his  shortening  visit,  and,  as  he  paced  to  and 
fro  chewing  the  end  of  his  cigar,  he  indulged  in  an 
assortment  of  American  profanity  which  would 
have  interested  a  collector  of  strange  words.  If 
concentration  of  mind  and  will  could  have  torn 
the  secret  of  the  necklace  from  the  walls  of  Gains 
they  would  have  spoken ;  but,  although  walls  have 
ears,  mercifully  for  some  of  us  they  have  not 
tongues. 

"I'd  bet  all  I've  got  in  the  world,"  Johns 
soliloquized,  "some  one  got  into  that  room.  That's 
leaping — 'surmising,'  that  blinking  idiot  McVitie 
would  say.  So  it  is;  and  if  you  don't  leap  you 
don't  grab  the  other  fellow  right.  Some  one  got 
into  that  room.  And  how?  Couldn't  have  passed 

[251] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

himself  through  the  keyhole,  couldn't  have 
squeezed  down  the  chimney  without  making  a  mess, 
couldn't  have  climbed  through  the  window  with- 
out showing  a  hoofmark  on  the  new  gravel. 
Looks  as  if  the  necklace  was  pinched  by  a  bad 
smell — that's  about  the  only  thing  as'll  get 
through  anything." 

He  spat  vigorously  and  resumed. 

"She  says  her  door  was  bolted.  S'pose  it 
wasn't.  That  means  she  opened  it  to  let  a  feller 
in,  and  then  swore  she  hadn't,  to  save  her  reputa- 
tion. Drury's  her  beau,  but  her  letters  and  her 
diary  are  all  against  the  quick  and  easy.  Was  she 
carrying  on  with  any  one  else  ?  Not  much.  Since 
I've  been  here  she's  been  sitting  as  near  Drury's 
lap  as  manners'll  let  her." 

"Come  back  to  it,"  he  broke  out  again,  after  a 
period  of  thought.  "There's  nothing  to  hitch 
her  on  to  it.  I  ought  to  know  a  straight  woman 
when  I  see  one,  and  I  b'lieve  she  is  straight.  And 
there  we  are  back  at  the  start  again.  Seems  to  me, 
even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  wouldn't  put  his 
finger  on  this." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of  the  church- 
goers, and  Vawdrey  joined  him  in  a  stroll  across 
the  lawn. 

"I'm  afraid  your  visit  hasn't  been  so  successful 
as  you  hoped,"  Vawdrey  said,  taking  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  farewell  conversation. 

"P'r'aps  not,"  Johns  answered.  "Though  we've 
proved  who  didn't  do  it." 

[252] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"Well,  that's  something.  But  what  we're  all 
anxious  to  know  is  who  did  do  it." 

"Agreed;  we've  missed  that." 

"I'm  sorry — both  for  you  and  for  us.  I'd  give 
a  good  deal  to  be  certain." 

"Certainty's  a  jewel.  And  it's  hard  to  catch 
when  you  don't  have  a  bit  of  luck  somewhere." 

"At  all  events,  I  hope  you  and  Mrs.  Johns  have 
had  a  pleasant  time,"  Vawdrey  said  in  a  friendly 
tone.  "You  must  bring  a  gun  when  you  come 
again." 

"Thanks." 

Silence  fell,  and  Vawdrey,  feeling  that  he  had 
done  what  politeness  demanded,  was  going  in  to 
write  some  letters  before  lunch. 

They  turned  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn  and  walked 
slowly  back  toward  the  house.  Luke  Johns,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  still  chewing  the  wet 
stump  of  his  cigar.  His  quick,  mobile  eyes  roved 
over  the  house,  as  if  in  a  last  attempt  to  tear  the 
secret  from  it.  They  roved  from  end  to  end,  above 
and  below;  they  halted  at  Pfeiffer's  window,  moved 
on  and  went  back  again.  Suddenly  they  narrowed, 
and  a  gleam  of  light  flashed  from  them.  His  mouth 
opened  and  closed  with  a  snap,  so  that  the  long  line 
of  his  lips  looked  like  a  taut  steel  wire.  He  stopped 
and  caught  Vawdrey  by  the  arm,  saying : 

"Say,  who  sleeps  in  those  garrets?" 

Vawdrey  was  startled.  The  change  in  Luke 
Johns'  bearing  and  tone  struck  him  as  remarkable. 
He  looked  at  him,  wondering  what  had  happened 

[253] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

to  alter  him  so  completely  in  the  few  seconds  since 
he  said  "Thanks." 

"Eh?"  he  said. 

"Who  sleeps  in  those  garrets?" 

"In  those  garrets  ?  Servants,  I  suppose.  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  been  up  there." 

"Who  sleeps  in  that  one?"  Johns  asked  peremp- 
torily, pointing  to  the  closed  window  above 
Pfeiffer's. 

"I  haven't  an  idea.    I  can  find  out,  if  you  like." 

Johns  cooled  down  as  rapidly  as  he  had  caught 
fire. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  answered,  with  indifference. 
"It's  no  matter.  I  just  wondered." 

Vawdrey  left  him  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace  and 
went  indoors. 

Johns  continued  his  walk,  saying  softly  to  him- 
self: 

"A  bit  of  luck  at  last.  Holy  Moses,  if  it's  only 
right!" 

At  luncheon  a  discussion  arose  as  to  what  should 
be  done  in  the  afternoon.  Some  were  in  favor  of  a 
walk;  others  preferred  the  motor,  and  Mrs.  Vaw- 
drey headed  a  minority  who  spoke  of  "resting  dur- 
ing the  warm  part  of  the  day." 

"I'm  with  you,  Mrs.  Vawdrey,"  Johns  said.  "A 
snooze  after  a  big  meal's  better'n  a  full-size  bottle 
of  cure-all." 

"What's  cure-all?"  Sir  Charles  asked. 

"One  of  the  advertising  drugs  that  fits  you  like 

[254] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

a  ready-to-wear  suit.  If  you've  got  a  pain  in  your 
head,  buy  it;  and  if  you've  got  a  pain  in  your  feet, 
buy  it.  And  if  you  haven't  got  a  pain  anywhere, 
don't  worry — buy  it,  and  you'll  soon  have  one." 

"Well,  whatever  you  all  do,  please  remember 
that  the  parson  is  coming  to  tea,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey 
said. 

"Oh,  lor' !  We  shall  have  to  behave,"  Vawdrey 
groaned. 

"Yes,  father,  please  don't  shock  him  this  time," 
Ethel  put  in. 

"I  shock  him  ?    I  shouldn't  dream  of  it." 

"Well,  you  did  before,  when  you  told  him  the 
story  about  Moses  and  the  sausages.  He  turned 
quite  pink." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  as  careful  as  a  mother's  meet- 
ing and  I  hope  you'll  all  play  up  to  me.  Lady  Ben- 
yon,  pray  set  a  watch  upon  your  lips.  If  Moses  and 
the  sausages  turned  him  pink,  one  of  your  witty 
remarks  might  suffuse — that's  right,  isn't  it? — 
suffuse  our  reverend  friend  with  purple." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  good  at  talking  to  the  clergy, 
though  paying  visits  gets  one  out  of  it  rather." 

"That's  one  to  you,  Lady  Ben,"  Drury  laughed. 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  had  elected  to  join  the  mo- 
torists, and  her  husband  had  no  opportunity  for  a 
private  word  with  her  before  she  started.  Know- 
ing him  as  she  did,  she  had  noticed  at  luncheon  that 
his  cheerfulness  rang  more  true  than  before,  and 
she  wondered  if  he  had  discovered  anything  which 
might  bring  the  three  thousand  dollars  nearer  to 

[255] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

their  grasp.  He  saw  her  off  with  a  nod  and  a  smile, 
and  soon  afterward,  when  the  walking  party  had 
set  out,  he  went  to  his  room  with  the  ostensible 
object  of  getting  the  snooze  which  he  professed  to 
value  so  highly. 

But  with  the  door  shut,  he  showed  himself  any- 
thing but  sleepy.  He  did  not  even  glance  at  the 
sofa.  He  hung  restlessly  about,  picking  his  teeth, 
and  from  time  to  time  looking  at  his  watch.  Pres- 
ently he  changed  his  boots,  hesitating  for  a  moment 
between  the  black  slippers  with  felt  soles  and  some 
thin  patent-leather  boots  with  elastic  sides,  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  wear  with  dress  clothes.  He 
chose  the  latter,  and  going  to  the  door  he  opened  it 
and  looked  out  into  the  corridor.  No  one  was  in 
sight,  and  he  walked  noiselessly  along  until  he 
came  to  the  staircase.  A  footman  was  removing 
the  coffee  cups  in  the  hall  below,  and  Luke  Johns 
stood  watching  him  until  he  disappeared  through 
the  door  which  led  to  the  pantry.  Then  he  moved 
on  to  the  end  of  the  corridor. 

He  stopped  at  the  door  which  gave  upon  the 
back  staircase.  He  put  his  ear  to  it  and,  hearing 
no  sound,  he  opened  it  and  passed  through.  The 
stairs  led  from  the  ground  floor  to  the  attic,  and  he 
mounted  quickly.  At  the  top  he  found  himself 
facing  a  long  passage,  which  corresponded  to  the 
one  on  the  first  floor.  He  listened  for  any  sound 
of  movement  or  voices,  but  all  was  still;  and  he 
went  forward,  counting  the  doors  on  his  right  hand. 
He  stopped  before  the  sixth  and  peered  through 
[256] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

the  keyhole.    Then  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

The  room  was  a  good  sized  attic,  with  a  sloping 
roof,  and  a  dormer  window  looking  over  the  park. 
It  was  unfurnished,  and  was  littered  with  empty 
packing-cases  and  straw,  which  had  been  used  to 
bring  the  Vawdreys'  pictures  and  china  from 
Yorkshire.  The  boxes  were  heaped  one  upon 
another,  some  with  the  lids  half  torn  off,  others 
with  broken  or  bent  nails  projecting  from  the 
edges. 

Johns  looked  round,  his  keen  eyes  noting  the 
disorder.  Then  he  crossed  the  room  to  the  win- 
dow. The  tree  he  had  marked  was  in  a  line  with 
it,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  immediately  over 
Pfeiffer's  room. 

The  window  was  a  double  casement,  divided  in 
the  middle  by  a  stout  wooden  post,  into  which  the 
catches  fastened.  Outside,  the  slope  of  the  roof 
ran  down  to  the  gutter,  some  three  feet  below  the 
sill,  and  beyond  was  a  stone  coping  a  foot  or  more 
in  height. 

Johns  opened  both  sides  of  the  window.  Like 
the  rest  of  the  house  it  had  been  painted  recently; 
but  at  the  lower  part  of  the  centre  post  the  paint 
was  rubbed  and  dirty. 

He  bent  down  and  examined  the  abrasion  closely, 
passing  his  fingers  up  and  down  the  post  several 
times. 

"That's  right,"  he  said  to  himself.  'That's 
A  1  right.  The  luck's  turned  at  last." 

He  closed  the  window  and  began  to  look  about 

[257] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

the  room.  In  a  corner  he  came  upon  a  pile  of  rope, 
odd  lengths  which  had  come  off  the  packing-cases. 
He  lifted  out  some  of  them,  and  presently  he  laid 
three  of  the  longest  pieces  side  by  side  on  the  floor. 
In  each  piece,  at  intervals  of  about  two  feet,  were 
the  marks  of  a  knot  which  had  been  tied  and  untied, 
leaving  a  twist  in  the  rope. 

"That's  right.    That's  A  1  right,"  he  repeated 
happily. 

He  rolled  up  the  ropes  and  put  them  back  in  the 
corner.    Then  he  went  downstairs  to  his  bedroom. 


[258] 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  motor  being  late,  and  the  clergyman  early, 
Mrs.  Luke  Johns  did  not  go  upstairs  on  her 
return ;  but  in  the  hall,  as  her  husband  handed  her 
a  cup  of  tea,  he  gave  her  the  agreed  signal  which 
meant  that  he  had  something  to  communicate.  So, 
when  the  others  made  a  move  for  the  gardens,  she 
remained  behind,  and  presently  went  to  her  room. 

Luke  Johns  soon  joined  her,  and  when  he 
laughed  she  broke  out  excitedly: 

"Never!    Have  you?" 

He  fetched  the  slate,  and  they  sat  down  together 
on  the  sofa.  She  leant  over  him,  watching  the 
words  come  from  his  pencil. 

"I've  tumbled  to  it,"  he  wrote.  "And  it's  just 
as  simple  as  a  good  scheme  always  is." 

She  smiled  widely  and  squeezed  his  arm  to  make 
him  go  on. 

"I  was  thinking  it  over  this  morning  in  the 
garden.  I  felt  certain  there  was  a  pointer  sticking 
out  somewhere  if  I  could  only  see  it.  And  I 
couldn't.  Then  Vawdrey  came  along,  and  walked 
me  up  and  down,  and  asked  me  what  I'd  done. 
That  made  me  madder  than  ever." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  snatched  the  pencil  from  him 
and  wrote : 

"Cut  all  this." 

[259] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Johns  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  as  he  went  on 
with  his  story : 

"We  were  walking  toward  the  house.  Vawdrey 
had  shut  up,  and  I  was  back  again  with  Pfeiffer. 
Those  clocks  worried  me  some,  because  any  one 
who  knew  about  them  knew  he'd  be  safe  not  to 
wake  him.  Knowing  that,  he  wasn't  such  a  mug 
as  to  stay  outside;  but  I  couldn't  see  how  he  got  in." 

Johns  cleaned  the  slate  with  irritating  slowness 
before  he  went  on: 

"I  knew  it  was  easy;  they  don't  keep  magicians 
in  Scotland.  That's  what  worried  me  worst — it 
was  a  dam-fool  children's  puzzle  and  I  couldn't  fit 
it  together.  And  then,  in  half  a  sec,  it  came  to  me. 
The  chap  let  himself  down  from  the  garret 
window." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  clapped  her  hands  softly  in 
applause ;  then  she  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and 
kissed  him. 

"Have  you  made  good?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,"  he  wrote.  "This  afternoon  I  found  the 
rope  and  the  marks  on  the  window  where  it  was 
tied.  The  garret's  empty,  except  for  rubbish  and 
old  packing-crates." 

"Grand!  Now,  let's  think.  Pfeiffer's  out  of 
it.  Who's  left  in?" 

"All  the  rest  of  the  world  until  we  get  a  step 
further." 

"It  was  a  man." 

"Almost  certain." 

"Narrow  it  down.  It  was  some  one  in  the  house 
[260] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

or  with  a  pal  in  the  house;  because  he  knew  he 
could  get  from  one  room  to  the  other,  and  the  door 
between  was  unbolted  beforehand." 

"Agreed." 

"He  knew  about  the  clocks,  too.  It  would  have 
been  too  risky  otherwise,  without  drugging 
Pfeiffer." 

"Agreed.  There  was  a  big  risk  if  Pfeiffer  woke, 
because  there  isn't  any  way  out  from  the  garret 
except  by  the  one  staircase." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  sat  thinking.  Presently  a  fresh 
link  of  the  chain  took  shape  in  her  mind  and  she 
wrote : 

"If  the  clock  business  has  any  bearing  it  was 
some  one  in  the  house  who  took  the  necklace." 

Johns  raised  his  eyes  in  interrogation,  and  she 
went  on : 

"It  only  happened  the  night  before.  If  it  put 
him  up  to  the  job,  as  seems  likely,  it  must  have 
been  some  one  in  the  house.  No  expert  would  be 
hanging  round  in  a  'back-block'  place  like  this  wait- 
ing to  see  his  way." 

"That's  right,"  Johns  wrote.  "This  thing  was 
hatched  out  hot  and  quick,  and  done  right  off.  I 
don't  believe  it  was  done  by  an  expert." 

"Nor  do  I.  It  never  did  look  professional.  If 
they'd  hocussed  Pfeiffer  it  would  have  done;  but 
they  banked  on  his  being  a  sleeper,  and  /  think  the 
clocks  gave  them  the  certainty." 

"I  agree.     That  limits  it  to  some  one  indoors." 

Both  of  them  remained  silent  for  some  minutes, 
[261] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

trying  to  forge  the  next  link  in  the  chain.     It  was 
again  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  who  took  up  the  pencil. 

"This  isn't  servants,"  she  wrote  unconsciously, 
adopting  the  argument  which  Shaw  used  to  Mc- 
Vitie.  "It's  too  big.  No  servants'  fence  would 
touch  that  necklace." 

Luke  Johns  demurred. 

"That  wouldn't  prevent  a  servant  taking  it. 
Besides,  one  of  them  may  be  in  with  a  top-hole 
crook." 

"Well,  go  through  them.  There's  Gibson — the 
rope  isn't  made  which  would  lower  him  down. 
And  there's  two  footmen — both  of  them  have  lived 
with  Vawdrey  for  over  a  year.  That  doesn't  look 
criminal." 

"No.  P'r'aps  you're  right — anyway,  right 
enough  to  let  it  stand  for  a  bit." 

"That  leaves  —  Vawdrey,  Benyon,  Fraser, 
Drury.  I  think  Vawdrey's  genuine." 

"I,  too.  Eraser's  a  stinker — I'd  like  it  to  be 
him.  Benyon's  doubtful — seems  rich;  but  his  wife 
throws  it  about.  Drury?  I  rather  fancy  Drury." 

"There's  no  telling.  Seems  as  if  it's  one  of  the 
three." 

"Drury's  going  to  marry  her.  That's  in  his 
favor." 

"Why?  He  may  have  to  square  up  first.  Some- 
body's got  a  pull  on  him,  perhaps.  He  didn't  want 
us  here." 

"That's  so,  but  he  gave  a  reason." 
[262] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

"It's  easy  to  fake  a  reason  if  you've  wits  enough 
to  steal  a  necklace." 

The  conversation  came  to  a  halt,  and  after  a 
minute  Luke  Johns  got  up  and  began  to  pace  to 
and  fro.  He  bit  the  end  off  a  cigar  and  struck  a 
match.  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  drew  her  feet  up  on  the 
sofa  and  closed  her  eyes.  For  some  time  there  was 
unbroken  silence.  At  last,  pausing  in  his  walk, 
Johns  stood  beside  his  wife.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
her  forehead  puckered  in  thought,  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"Seems  as  if  we're  still  outside  the  gate,"  she 
said. 

Johns  picked  up  the  slate  again  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"If  we're  on  in  this  act,"  he  wrote,  "it's  got  to 
be  one  of  those  three.  And  we  don't  know  enough 
about  them  to  find  the  winner." 

"We  can't  stick  here,  now  we've  come  so  far," 
Mrs.  Luke  Johns  wrote. 

"If  we'd  only  more  time  I'd  go  through  their 
things.  Reckon  I'd  find  something  illuminating." 

"Let  me  think.  Go  downstairs  and  chat  a  bit. 
I'll  hit  on  something  before  dinner." 

Luke  Johns,  who,  with  reason,  had  great  faith 
in  his  wife's  powers  of  unravelling  a  knot,  patted 
her  hand  and  left  the  room. 

The  clergyman  had  just  gone,  and  Sir  Charles 
was  canvassing  for  croquet  players. 

"You'll  play  ?"  he  said  to  Johns,  after  trying  else- 
where in  vain  for  a  fourth. 
[263] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Me?  No,  thanks.  I've  no  use  for  those  nar- 
row loops." 

Ethel  was  eventually  sacrificed,  and  Johns  joined 
Fraser  and  Hilda  Carew  in  a  raid  on  a  plum  tree. 

"I  love  plums,"  Hilda  said,  as  she  bit  into  her 
second. 

"Pity  they've  got  a  stone.  They'd  be  so  much 
pleasanter  without,"  Fraser  answered,  as  he 
watched  Luke  Johns  expel  a  stone  from  his  mouth 
with  the  force  of  a  gun. 

"You  can't  have  perfection.  You  must  take  the 
good  and  reject  the  evil." 

"  'Reject'  is  excellent.  Ordinary  people,  like 
Mr.  Johns  and  myself,  would  have  said:  'Spit 
out.'  ' 

Johns  gave  him  a  sour  glance,  but  said  cheer- 
fully: 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  name  so  long's  you 
don't  swallow  it?" 

"Oh,  I  agree,"  Fraser  said  smoothly.  "Rejec- 
tion, under  any  name,  is  the  only  essential." 

"I  once  swallowed  a  fish-bone,  quite  a  large  one," 
Hilda  said. 

"Were  you  X-rayed?" 

"No;  I  was  slapped." 

"Well,  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the  old- 
fashioned  remedies.  Slap  the  child  and  cheat  the 
devil,  doesn't  somebody  say?" 

"I  never  heard  it;   but  it  sounds  familiar." 

"Solomon — on  an  off  day,  p'r'aps,"  Johns  re- 
marked. 

[264] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

When  Luke  Johns  returned  to  his  room  his  wife 
signed  to  him  to  bring  the  slate  and  wrote : 

"It  strikes  me  this  way.  We  think  one  of  these 
three  men  was  the  thief.  We  don't  know  any  of 
them  as  crooks,  and  they  all  have  good  reputa- 
tions. There  was  a  thought-out  plot,  because  the 
door  between  the  rooms  was  unbolted  beforehand; 
but  that  doesn't  prove  an  expert  hand.  Any  one 
might  have  carried  this  through." 

Johns  assented,  and  his  wife  went  on: 

"Whoever  did  it,  started  from  the  clock  affair. 
He  had  seen  the  necklace  night  after  night.  Prob- 
ably he  was  in  a  tight  place ;  anyway,  he  wanted  to 
lay  hold  of  it.  He'd  been  thinking  how  useful  it 
would  be,  and  then  the  clocks  came  along  and 
started  him  off.  He  was  quicker  than  you  and  me, 
because  he  found  out  how  to  get  into  Pfeiffer's 
room.  And  after  that,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
unbolt  the  inside  door  between  dinner  and  bedtime 
and  the  road  was  open." 

"That  sounds  right,"  Johns  wrote.  "Seeing's 
coveting,  when  you  want  money;  and  I  guess  he 
didn't  loiter  soon  as  the  clocks  showed  him  the 
way." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  paused  for  some  minutes  be- 
fore she  took  up  the  pencil  again. 

"If  we're  going  right,  what  would  he  do  with 
it?"  she  wrote.  "He's  got  no  friends  in  the  trade 
to  help  him  pass  it,  and  he'd  be  bound  to  move 
around  and  sell  it  himself.  He  hasn't  done  that 
yet,  so  he's  still  got  it." 

[265! 


Luke  Johns  took  the  pencil  from  her  and  wrote : 

"He  might  post  it  off,  addressed  to  himself." 

"He  might,  only  he'd  be  scared.  He's  got  no 
experience;  doesn't  know  what  he  can  or  can't 
do.  Well,  then — either  he  hides  it  somewhere 
here  or  keeps  it  on  him." 

"Perhaps." 

"Come  down  to  that.  He  knows  there'll  be  de- 
tectives ferreting  round;  maybe  every  one'll  be 
searched.  So  he  doesn't  want  it  in  his  trunks." 

Johns  nodded  more  appreciatively. 

"Then  he  keeps  it  in  his  pocket,  or,  much  more 
likely,  puts  it  somewhere  safe.  If  he's  got  sense  he 
wants  a  place  where,  if  it  is  found,  it  won't  drag 
him  in." 

"Agreed.    He'd  want  to  lay  off  the  risk." 

"Just  so.  And  he  had  sense,  because  he  put  the 
empty  case  under  the  woman's  doormat,  which  is 
the  cutest  thing  he  could  have  done." 

She  paused,  waiting  for  him  to  digest  her  rea- 
soning. After  a  minute's  reflection  he  assented; 
and  she  went  on : 

"If  he  put  it  somewhere  safe,  he's  got  to  fetch 
it  back  again.  When?  As  soon  as  the  detective 
is  through?  That's  days  ago.  But  if  he's  got 
sense  he  might  leave  it  where  it  was  till  he  was 
going  away." 

Johns  eagerly  seized  the  pencil  and  wrote : 

"He'll  fetch  it  to-night  sure." 

Mrs.  Johns  laughed  softly.  They  had  so  often 
worked  out  puzzles  together,  and  what  McVitie 
[266] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

called  "surmising"  always  amused  her.  Long  prac- 
tice had  given  her  a  delicate  sense  in  weighing 
probabilities,  so  that  she  had  grown  to  have  con- 
fidence in  her  own  powers.  She  took  the  pencil 
from  her  husband  and  wrote : 

"We'll  watch  to-night.  It's  a  fair  chance  and 
it's  the  last  one  we've  got." 

"Wish  we  had  a  few  more  days." 

"Wishing  won't  alter  it.  We're  booked  for  to- 
morrow's train,  and  so  is  every  one  else.  If  we 
don't  pull  it  off  to-night  there's  only  one  thing  left. 
But  I  don't  think  it'll  go." 

"What's  that?    Bluff?" 

"You  can't  bluff  the  three  of  them.  No;  we 
can  put  the  cards  on  the  table  with  Vawdrey  and 
call  for  a  search.  But  the  case  isn't  strong  enough." 

Luke  Johns  shook  his  head. 

At  that  moment  the  dressing-gong  sounded. 


[267] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  T  dinner  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  exerted 
'  *•  themselves  to  be  even  more  agreeable  than 
usual,  and  no  one  would  have  supposed  that  in 
their  minds  they  were  accusing  one  of  the  company 
of  being  a  thief.  Mrs.  Johns  listened  intently  to 
Sir  Charles's  interminable  description  of  a  croquet 
match,  and  Luke  Johns  put  his  dislike  of  Fraser 
behind  him  and  answered  his  banderilla  remarks 
with  good-humored  meekness.  Even  Drury  felt 
them  to  be  less  oppressive  than  before,  and,  in  an- 
ticipation of  soon  being  free  from  them,  found  it 
possible  to  be  almost  tolerant. 

Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing  went  early  to  bed,  pleading 
to-morrow's  journey;  and  the  others  followed  soon 
afterward.  Luke  Johns  stayed  in  the  billiard-room 
for  half  an  hour,  and  when  he  got  to  his  room  his 
wife  had  undressed.  She  was  making  her  toilet  in 
preparation  for  the  night  watch,  and  she  looked 
surprisingly  different  from  the  elegant  little  person 
whom  Sir  Charles  had  taken  in  to  dinner.  She  had 
shaken  down  her  hair  and  redone  it  in  a  hard  knot; 
and,  in  place  of  the  tight  black  frock  covered  with 
yellow  sequins,  she  was  putting  on  a  thick  flannel 
petticoat  and  bodice  and  a  serge  dress  which  hung 
several  inches  from  the  ground.  Her  very  pretty 
feet  were  shod  most  unbecomingly  in  sand-shoes. 
Johns  smiled  at  her  with  approval  in  his  eyes. 
[268] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

They  had  kept  watch  together  before,  and  he  knew 
how  useful  she  was,  both  in  the  certain  tedium  of 
waiting  and  in  the  possible  moment  of  emergency. 

He  .began  rapidly  to  take  off  his  dress  clothes, 
stripping  down  to  his  vest.  Then,  unlocking  his  suit- 
case, he  took  from  it  what  he  called  his  burgling 
outfit — a  gray  flannel  shirt,  old  black  trousers,  a 
Cardigan  jacket  with  sleeves,  and  black  felt  slip- 
pers. His  appearance  in  these  clothes  was  certainly 
not  that  of  a  man  whom  one  cares  to  meet  on  a 
lonely  road.  He  looked  a  malefactor,  and  a  pow- 
erful one,  for  his  sinewy  arms  showed  thick  under 
the  stretched  woollen  sleeves.  Into  one  side-pocket 
he  slipped  his  electric  torch;  into  the  other  a  re- 
volver, fully  charged. 

His  wife  stood  waiting  for  him,  and  when  he 
was  ready  she  placed  two  chairs  near  the  door  and 
softly  drew  back  the  bolt.  Johns  blew  out  the 
candles  and  sat  down.  Then  he  felt  for  the  door- 
handle and  turned  it  cautiously,  opening  the  door 
an  inch.  The  passage  outside  was  in  darkness. 

They  sat  perfectly  still,  hand  in  hand.  Now  and 
again  they  exchanged  a  slight  pressure  of  the 
fingers,  as  a  precaution  against  falling  asleep.  The 
silence  of  the  house  was  complete,  save  when  it 
was  broken  at  each  half-hour  by  the  chiming  of 
the  hall  clock,  which  seemed  to  occur  at  enormous 
intervals  of  time. 

To  amuse  himself,  Luke  Johns  began  to  plan 
what  he  would  do  with  the  reward  if  they  earned 
it.  Things  had  not  been  going  too  well  lately; 
[269] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

they  had  had  one  or  two  failures,  and,  in  conse- 
quence, money  had  been  coming  in  slowly.  One 
of  their  reasons  for  taking  a  holiday  had  been  that 
they  both  felt  used  up  and  in  need  of  a  change  of 
scene  to  give  them  renewed  capacity  for  work. 
With  three  thousand  dollars  in  hand  they  would 
be  free  from  worry;  they  could  stay  in  Europe  for 
a  while  longer,  and  when  they  got  home  they  would 
not  feel  themselves  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
They  would  have  a  fortnight  in  Paris  and  do  the 
restaurants. 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns,  more  prudent  than  her  hus- 
band, was  concentrating  her  mind  on  the  theft.  She 
was  fully  aware  that  they  had  not  yet  "made 
good,"  and  no  less  aware  that  the  most  carefully 
laid  plans  often  break  down.  They  were  dealing 
with  probabilities,  not  with  certainties,  and  she 
asked  herself  what  should  be  done  if  they  failed 
to  lay  hands  on  the  necklace  to-night.  She  could 
find  no  satisfactory  answer,  for  she  was  sure  that 
Vawdrey  would  not  sanction  a  search,  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  it  would  show  that  he  had 
admitted  detectives  into  the  house  to  spy  upon  his 
guests.  Rather  than  that,  she  thought,  he  would 
let  the  thief  escape,  saying  that  he  had  done  all, 
and  more  than  all,  that  could  be  expected  of  him. 

The  hall  clock  struck  two.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  been  sitting  there  for  several  hours, 
and  she  judged  that,  if  nothing  happened  soon,  they 
were  wasting  their  time.  She  was  growing  despon- 
dent and  very  sleepy,  and  she  made  up  her  mind 
[270] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

to  wait  only  for  another  half-hour.  Suddenly,  the 
silence  of  the  night  was  broken  by  the  creak  of  a 
door.  It  was  faint  and  cautious,  but  it  did  not 
escape  the  practised  ears  which  were  listening  for 
it.  Johns  pressed  his  wife's  hand  firmly. 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  seconds.  Then  the 
door  creaked  again:  it  was  being  opened  wider. 
Johns  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  secure  in  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  oiled  the  hinges  of  his  own  door  when 
he  arrived,  he  swung  it  slowly  back.  The  creaking, 
he  judged,  was  not  far  away. 

He  looked  out,  and,  as  he  looked,  a  figure  carry- 
ing a  candle  came  from  one  of  the  rooms  and  went 
noiselessly  along  the  corridor,  past  the  head  of  the 
staircase.  Johns  followed  it,  keeping  well  behind 
in  the  darkness.  It  stopped  at  the  door  which  led 
to  the  back  staircase,  opened  it  carefully,  and 
passed  through. 

Johns  quickened  his  pace.  He  saw  the  flicker  of 
the  candle  on  the  upper  flight  and  went  on.  He 
crept  upstairs,  keeping  close  to  the  wall,  and 
reached  the  top  in  time  to  see  the  figure  disappear 
into  one  of  the  garrets.  His  heart  throbbed  with 
excitement,  for  he  knew  it  was  the  garret  over 
Pfeiffer's  room. 

"The  luck's  holding!"  he  thought  exultantly. 
"The  luck's  holding,  by  gum!" 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  and  then  moved  for- 
ward. The  door  was  open,  and  as  he  came  to  it 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  took  out  his 
revolver.  Then  he  stepped  in. 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

The  candle  was  set  upon  the  floor.  Beside  it  a 
man  dressed  in  pajamas  was  stooping  down.  His 
arm  was  thrust  into  one  of  the  empty  packing-cases 
which  lay  about  the  room.  Presently  he  withdrew 
his  arm  and  stood  up.  He  turned  slowly  round, 
looking  intently  at  something  in  his  hand. 

The  man  was  Leslie  Eraser. 

Johns  lifted  his  revolver,  saying  quietly: 

"Hands  up!" 

Eraser  started  convulsively,  and  looked  up  with 
abject  terror  in  his  eyes.  The  necklace  fell  clatter- 
ing to  the  floor,  and  one  of  the  stones,  catching  a 
ray  from  the  candle,  sent  up  a  shoot  of  fire. 

"You I"  Fraser  cried.    "You!" 

He  was  shaking  with  fear,  and  his  teeth  clicked 
together  so  that  he  could  scarcely  speak.  His  voice 
came  in  a  faint  scream,  as  if  he  were  being 
smothered. 

"You're  a  detective,"  he  cried,  when  Johns  said 
nothing.  "I  wondered  if  you  were." 

"That's  right,"  Johns  answered  imperturbably. 
"I'm  a  detective,  and  I  guess  I'm  home  on  this 
trip." 

Fraser  did  not  speak  for  a  minute ;  he  was  fight- 
ing to  regain  control  of  himself.  Presently  he  said 
in  a  more  natural  voice : 

"I'm  in  your  hands.  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"Stand  back  a  pace  while  I  pick  up  the  necklace." 

Fraser  retreated  a  yard.  A  crafty  light  came 
into  his  eyes  as  the  possibility  of  escape  occurred  to 
[272] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

him.  Without  looking  ahead,  he  thought  that,  if 
he  could  disarm  Johns,  he  might  somehow  save 
himself. 

As  Johns  stooped  down  to  get  the  necklace 
Fraser  sprang  forward  and  aimed  a  blow  at  his 
head.  But  Johns  was  too  quick  for  him ;  he 
dodged,  and  the  blow  glanced  harmlessly  aside. 
With  surprising  agility  he  flung  himself  upon 
Fraser,  sending  his  left  hand  crashing  into  his  jaw. 
Fraser  staggered  backward,  and  before  he  could 
recover  himself  Johns  had  pocketed  the  necklace 
and  stood  covering  him  with  his  revolver. 

"Don't  try  that  on,"  he  said  roughly;  "I  could 
choke  one  of  you  in  each  hand,  you  blamed,  an- 
cestral, weasely  Scotchman!" 

Fraser  looked  at  him  as  if  he  meant  to  spring. 
Then,  realizing  the  completeness  of  his  defeat  and 
the  inevitable  disgrace  which  would  come  upon 
him,  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  burst  into 
sobs.  It  was  a  horrible  sight,  but  Luke  Johns  had 
seen  too  many  dreadful  things  to  be  easily  moved. 
He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  box  and  watched 
Fraser  with  a  half-contemptuous  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Come,"  he  said  presently,  "you  ain't  dead  yet, 
you  know.  While  there's  life  there's  hope." 

"Hope!"  Fraser  groaned.  "What  have  I  to 
do  with  hope?  I'm  broken,  finished.  I  wish  to 
God  you'd  shot  me.  Then  I  should  be  clear  of 
it  all." 

Johns'  smile  broadened  as  he  answered: 

"You're  taking  a  black  view.     If  I'd  put  a  bul- 

[273] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

let  into  you  maybe  you'd  be  wishing  you  were  alive 
again." 

Silence  fell.  Fraser  gradually  regained  control 
of  himself;  and  presently,  as  a  man  does  when  he 
knows  the  worst  and  resolves  to  face  it,  he  drew 
himself  up  and  squared  his  shoulders. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice.  "You  had  better  rouse  the  house  and  send 
for  the  police.  Let's  get  it  over." 

Johns  eyed  him  narrowly.  He  disliked  him,  and 
he  was  glad  to  have  him  in  his  power;  he  was  glad, 
too,  to  have  recovered  the  necklace  and  earned  the 
reward.  But  he  knew  a  man  when  he  saw  one,  and 
he  appreciated  Fraser's  "grit"  in  forcing  himself 
to  meet  his  troubles  calmly. 

"I  don't  fancy  that,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 
"We  don't  want  any  village  policeman  shoving  in 
here.  Come  to  that,"  he  added  reflectively,  "Vaw- 
drey  won't  be  pleased  at  making  a  scandal.  These 
things  are  best  kept  quiet." 

A  flicker  of  hope  dawned  in  Fraser's  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "you're  going  to  let 
me  off?  You've  got  the  necklace." 

"Can't  say  that.  It  isn't  up  to  me,  any  more'n 
it's  up  to  me  to  raise  a  din  in  Vawdrey's  house  by 
sending  for  the  police." 

"What  d'you  mean,  then  ?" 

Johns  sucked  his  teeth  in  contemplation.  He 
had  got  the  necklace — that  was  what  he  was  to  be 
paid  for,  and,  having  got  it,  he  did  not  care  a  curse 
what  happened  to  Fraser.  Long  experience  of 

[274] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

delicate  cases  had  taught  him  that,  when  the  main 
object  was  achieved,  it  generally  suited  all  parties 
not  to  press  further,  and  he  was  disinclined  to  do 
anything  on  his  own  responsibility  which  might 
embarrass  Vawdrey. 

"See  here,"  he  said  presently,  "you're  going  to- 
morrow. Well,  you  can.  If  you're  wanted,  you 
won't  find  it  easy  to  keep  out.  Go  to  London  and 
stop  there.  Guess  I'd  take  your  word  to  be  on 
hand  when  you're  called." 

"I  see,"  Fraser  answered  slowly.  "You  won't 
arrest  me  till  I've  left  here?" 

"That's  so.  You  don't  want  to  say  good-by  in 
handcuffs." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  do  as  you  wish;  I've  got 
to.  I  will  go  to  London  and  stay  at  my  rooms  till 
I  hear  from  you." 

He  turned  to  pick  up  the  candle,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  going  downstairs.  But  Luke  Johns  seemed 
in  no  hurry  and  remained  seated.  He  was  nat- 
urally curious,  and  now  that  his  work  was  done, 
and  the  necklace  in  his  pocket,  he  was  inclined  to 
indulge  his  curiosity. 

"Say,"  he  said  in  an  easy  tone,  "this  job  was 
cleverly  put  through.  Have  you  been  in  the  trade 
before?" 

Eraser's  eyes  fell  and  the  color  rushed  into  his 
face  as  he  answered : 

"No." 

"Then  you're  a  darned  good  performer.    Some- 

[275] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

thing  gave  you  the  office — eh?  That  business  with 
the  clocks,  I  surmise." 

Eraser  looked  at  Johns.  There  was  something 
persuasive,  almost  friendly,  in  the  man's  tone, 
which  prompted  him  to  tell  the  whole  story. 

"I  suppose  that  began  it,"  he  said. 

Then,  with  the  thought  that,  if  he  could  not 
justify  his  action,  he  could  at  least  show  an  exten- 
uating motive,  he  yielded  himself  more  unreserv- 
edly, and  added  in  a  quick,  tense  voice : 

"I  was  worried  to  death  for  a  sum  of  money 
which  had  to  be  found;  and  seeing  her  wearing 
the  necklace  the  devil  himself  made  me  think  of 
taking  it.  It  obsessed  me;  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  it.  And,  on  top  of  that,  some  one  suggested 
hiding  it  as  a  joke,  and  the  whole  plan  rolled  out 
before  me.  I  tried  to  forget  it  and  I  couldn't; 
and  when  we  were  in  her  room  before  dinner,  pre- 
tending to  look  for  the  necklace,  I  slipped  back  the 
bolt  of  the  door.  Even  then  I  didn't  mean  to  take 
it;  I  swear  I  didn't;  and  if  I'd  had  a  chance  I'd 
have  gone  back  and  bolted  the  door  again." 

"And  when  you  went  to  bed  it  kind  o'  gripped 
you?" 

"Yes.  I  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  but  the  thing 
danced  before  my  eyes,  and  I  think  I  went  mad. 
I  got  up  at  last  and  came  up  here." 

"And  then?" 

"I  knew  there  was  a  coil  of  rope  which  used  to 
hang  on  a  peg  in  the  passage;  it  was  kept  there  so 
that  the  servants  could  scramble  down  in  case  of 
[276] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

fire.  When  I  lived  here  as  a  boy  I  used  it  scores 
of  times — I  suppose  that's  what  gave  me  the  idea 
of  getting  into  Pfeiffer's  room.  I  came  up  to 
look  for  it,  and  I  think  I  was  glad  to  find  it  gone, 
because  it  settled  the  matter.  But  I  came  in  here, 
and  I  found  a  lot  of  ropes  which  had  come  off 
these  boxes." 

"And  that  fixed  you?" 

"It  was  so  infernally  easy,"  Fraser  cried 
piteously,  "I  couldn't  resist.  There  didn't  seem  to 
be  a  risk  in  it." 

"There  wasn't.  You  must  have  smiled  some 
when  McVitie  went  snuffing  off  on  the  wrong  tack." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  discovered.  I  never 
heard." 

"He's  after  Pfeiffer.  He  couldn't  see  how  any 
one  else  got  in." 

"Good  heavens !  Of  course,  Pfeiffer  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it." 

"We  tumbled  to  that  in  about  two  seconds.  We 
were  sent  here  to  see  if  it  had  ever  been  stolen  at 
all.  The  lady  was  our  mystery." 

"Then  it  was  you  who  went  through  her 
letters?" 

"That's  so,"  Johns  answered,  with  a  chuckle. 
"And  a  more  blithering  lot  of  writing  I  never  saw. 
Diary — Monday:  'Arthur  took  my  hand  in  the 
garden.  I  let  him.  He  is  a  dear  boy.'  Tuesday: 
'Arthur  was  very  sweet.'  Wednesday:  'Arthur 
was  a  dear  boy  again.'  Gosh!  It  made  me  sick!" 

Fraser  did  not  respond  to  Luke  Johns'  pleas- 


antry,    but    turned    the    conversation     abruptly, 
saying : 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 

"Just  luck  and  then  reasoning.  My  wife's  a 
terror  at  reasoning.  I  found  the  rope  and  the 
marks  on  "the  window-post,  and  we  reckoned  it  out 
that  whoever'd  taken  it  wouldn't  keep  it  on  him. 
Chances  were  he'd  put  it  somewhere  till  it  was  time 
to  start — and  that's  to-morrow.  So  we  watched 
to  see  him  fetch  it." 

"Did  you  suspect  me?" 

"Well,  counting  everything,  we  narrowed  it 
down  to  you  and  Benyon  and  Drury." 

There  was  a  pause.    Then  Luke  Johns  said : 

"Say,  why  did  you  do  it?  You  weren't  giving 
all  that  to  a  girl?" 

Eraser's  lips  quivered  with  pain. 

"No;  not  to  a  girl,"  he  said  softly.  "I  had  to 
find  some  money." 

"That's  the  same  thing,  mostly." 

Fraser  hesitated.  He  wanted  to  justify  himself, 
and  at  last  he  said: 

"It  was  my  mother.  She  had  lost  a  lot  at  cards 
and  had  got  into  a  money-lender's  hands.  He  was 
threatening  her,  and  I  promised  to  find  five  thou- 
sand pounds  by  the  end  of  September." 

Luke  Johns  was  touched.  He  had  had  to  do 
with  so  many  criminals,  and  he  had  never  before 
met  with  an  unselfish  one. 

"Well,  that's  a  noble  motive,"  he  said.     "Guess 
I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  spotted  you." 
[278] 


WHAT  LUKE  JOHNS  DISCOVERED 

Fraser  turned  to  him  impetuously,  crying: 

"That's  the  truth.  I  did  it  to  save  her,  so  give 
me  a  chance.  You've  got  the  necklace.  Let  to- 
night be  between  you  and  me.  You  can  easily 
make  up  a  story,  and  I'll  pay  your  fee  and  do  any- 
thing you  want  to  make  it  square." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  Johns  answered,  recover- 
ing from  his  momentary  lapse  into  sentimentality. 
"My  clients'll  want  to  know;  but  I  reckon  they 
won't  want  to  make  a  fuss." 

"Must  you  tell  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  at  least  persuade  them  not  to  prosecute. 
They'll  listen  to  you — you've  got  the  necklace  back 
for  them." 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  Luke  Johns  drawled. 
"You  haven't  been  overpolite  to  me,  but  I  won't  get 
back  on  you  for  that." 

Fraser  was  trembling  with  excitement  and  fear. 

"Plead  with  them,  beg  them,  to  do  nothing," 
he  cried.  "Perhaps  you  can't  realize  what  it  means 
to  me — the  disgrace  on  the  family.  It  would  kill 
my  mother." 

"All  right,  I'll  try.  You  go  to  London,  and  I'll 
pass  you  word  soon  as  I  get  it.  Now,  I  reckon  we 
might  turn  in  if  you're  ready." 

Johns  stood  back  and  allowed  Fraser  to  go  in 
front  of  him  with  the  candle.  They  went  silently 
downstairs  and  along  the  lower  corridor.  They 
parted  at  Fraser's  room,  and  Johns  moved  on  to  his 
own  room. 

[  279  ] 


His  wife  was  waiting  for  him.  He  pressed  the 
button  of  his  electric  torch,  and  she  came  toward 
him  with  eyebrows  uplifted  in  an  eager  question. 
He  said  nothing,  but  drew  the  necklace  from  his 
pocket  and  turned  the  light  upon  it.  Unemotional 
as  she  was  by  nature  and  training  she  put  her  hand 
to  her  breast  and  gasped. 

She  took  it  from  him  and  held  it  up,  turning  it 
this  way  and  that  to  catch  the  light.  It  was  like  a 
live  thing,  shifting  and  sparkling  in  her  fingers. 
For  some  minutes  she  could  not  let  it  go;  it  ab- 
sorbed her,  and  as  she  watched  it  flash,  little 
breaths  of  laughter  came  from  her  lips. 

At  length  she  gave  it  back  to  her  husband. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  in  hers  Luke  Johns  saw  some- 
thing which  he  had  never  seen  there  before — the 
lust  of  covetousness. 


[280] 


BOOK  V 
WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 


CHAPTER  I 

T  UKE  JOHNS  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  man 
•*-"'  who  has  earned  his  reward.  With  the  neck- 
lace under  his  pillow  he  curled  himself  up;  and  so 
he  lay,  untroubled  by  dreams  or  by  the  cares  of 
other  people. 

His  wife  was  more  restless;  in  fact,  she  did  not 
sleep  at  all.  As  with  Fraser,  the  diamonds  danced 
before  her  eyes,  flashing  out  of  the  darkness  and 
seducing  her  with  their  promise  of  wealth.  Pres- 
ently, by  an  extension  of  thought,  she  saw  mirrored 
before  her  all  that  they  might  mean — the  freedom 
from  the  struggle  to  live,  the  abandonment  of  the 
stuffy  New  York  flat,  the  little  house  "down 
South"  of  which  she  and  her  husband  often  talked 
as  a  distant  possibility.  She  was  tired  of  work, 
and  she  craved  for  a  home  where  she  could  be  at 
peace,  and  forget  that  there  were  such  things  in 
the  world  as  divorces  and  blackmail  and  robberies. 

Hour  after  hour  she  lay  beside  her  sleeping  hus- 
band, asking  herself  again  and  again :  "Can  we  get 
away  with  it?"  Abstract  morality  had  never  trou- 
bled her  much,  and  she  was  too  well  accustomed  to 
mix  with  people  who  had  none  to  value  it  highly. 
Some  people  were  honest  and  some  were  not;  and 
she  had  never  found  anything  to  show  that  the  dis- 
honest ones  had  the  worst  of  it.  It  was  the  stupid 
[283] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

who  went  to  the  wall — the  fools,  who  made  mis- 
takes, who  "got  into  trouble." 

Thus,  no  qualms  of  conscience  distracted  her 
thoughts  from  the  craving  to  keep  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing's  necklace ;  and,  though  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  been  tempted  by  the  magnitude  of  the  prize 
to  betray  a  client,  no  hesitation  existed  in  her  mind 
about  doing  it.  The  question  which  vexed  her 
was  how  it  could  be  done  without  bringing  unpleas- 
ant consequences  in  its  train.  Naturally,  they 
would  keep  the  necklace  until  they  reached  Lon- 
don, and  from  there  they  might  make  a  dash  for 
the  Continent  and  disappear.  But  she  saw  the 
futility  of  this  as  soon  as  it  suggested  itself.  True, 
they  were  not  known;  but  with  such  plunder  the 
whole  police  force  of  Europe  would  be  turned  upon 
their  track,  and  money  spent  like  water  to  get  in 
touch  with  them.  That  was  "stupid,"  a  fool's 
game,  the  sort  of  thing  that  made  her  contemp- 
tuous when  other  people  did  it. 

No,  it  would  have  to  be  something  cleverer  than 
that  if  it  were  to  be  done  at  all.  What  they  wanted 
was  to  create  the  belief  that  some  one  else  had  the 
necklace.  Who?  And  how?  Those  were  the 
questions  which  exercised  her  all  through  the  night 
and  remained  unanswered  in  the  morning.  Finally 
she  decided  that  they  must  wait  upon  events,  and 
that  no  plan  was  possible  at  the  moment.  Things 
happened — she  knew  that  as  well  as  any  one ;  and 
a  lucky  turn  of  the  wheel  might  present  the  open- 
ing for  which  she  had  searched  in  vain.  Mean- 
[284] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

while,  no  one  knew  that  they  had  the  necklace, 
except,  of  course,  Eraser;  and  he  could  be  trusted 
not  to  speak.  She  would  warn  Johns  to  say  no 
more  than  was  necessary  to  Vawdrey,  and  to  let 
him  think  that  they  had  not  yet  recovered  it.  With 
this  decision,  she  looked  at  her  watch,  and  seeing 
that  it  was  now  past  seven  she  roused  her  husband 
and  bade  him  fetch  the  slate. 

"So  it  was  Eraser,"  she  wrote.  "Tell  me  what 
happened." 

Luke  Johns,  rather  sleepy  but  in  the  best  of 
tempers,  sat  up  in  bed  and  began  to  write : 

"It  was  in  the  garret,  under  some  straw  in  a 
packing-case.  I  might  have  found  it  myself  if  I'd 
thought  to  look.  I  caught  him  with  his  hand  on  it 
and  scared  him  some.  Seemed  to  me  we  didn't 
want  a  scene  here,  so  I  took  it  from  him  and  told 
him  to  go  to  London  and  wait  orders  there. 
Reckon  they  won't  prosecute,  now  they've  got  the 
swag." 

"So  he'll  leave  to-day?" 

"Yes;  along  with  us  and  the  others.  He  said 
he'd  been  itching  to  get  it  and  fighting  it  off;  and 
then  those  clocks  started  him  in  fairly.  He  used 
to  monkey  up  and  down  ropes  here  when  he  was  a 
boy,  and  knew  all  about  it  from  A  to  Z.  Next 
day  some  of  'em  put  a  laugh  on  Mrs.  Dayrell- 
Wing  and  hid  the  necklace,  and  it  just  swept  him 
off  his  feet.  Says  he  never  meant  to  do  it,  but  all 
the  same  he  unbolted  the  door  when  they  were  in 
[285] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

the  room  making  believe  to  look  for  the  necklace. 
And  after  that  it  was  as  easy  as  eating  pie." 

"Short  of  money,  I  suppose?" 

"Wanted  it  for  his  mother.  She  was  up  a  tree, 
with  a  few  yapping  underneath.  I'm  real  sorry 
for  him;  I  am  so." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  was  not  so  easily  moved  to 
pity  as  her  husband,  and  she  paid  little  heed  to  the 
extenuating  circumstances  of  Eraser's  case.  She 
was  much  more  interested  in  her  own  affairs,  for 
Johns  had  his  prejudices,  and  she  was  not  sure 
what  amount  of  persuasion  would  be  necessary  to 
bring  him  into  line  with  her  wishes.  While  she 
was  considering  how  to  broach  the  subject  to  him 
he  wrote : 

"Said  I'd  get  him  off  if  I  could." 

Mrs.  Johns  took  the  pencil  from  him  with  quick 
decision  and  answered: 

"We've  enough  to  do  with  ourselves.  Don't 
worry  about  him." 

Johns  raised  his  eyebrows  and  grunted. 

"Guess  we're  through,"  he  wrote.  "It's  two 
weeks  in  Paris  and  then  home." 

"We're  not  through." 

"Why?" 

"Are  you  seeing  Vawdrey?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then  don't  tell  him  you've  got  the  necklace. 
Let  him  think  it's  in  London,  and  we're  getting  it 
there.     If  it  comes  out  after,  it's  easy  to  say  it  was 
safer  for  no  one  to  know  you  had  it  on  you." 
[286] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"What's  the  game?" 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  hesitated  for  a  long  minute. 
Then  she  wrote:  "The  necklace  would  be  more 
use  to  us  than  three  thousand  dollars." 

Johns  looked  at  her  sharply.  He  understood; 
but  the  thing  was  beyond  possibility. 

"You're  mad,"  he  wrote.  "If  we  walked  away 
the  first  Marconigram  would  hold  us  up." 

"It  won't  happen  like  that." 

"Explain." 

"I  can't.  I  don't  see  clear  yet.  Likely  it  won't 
come  out  right,  but  anyway  keep  the  necklace  as 
long  as  you  can." 

"This  is  just  fool  talk.  It's  mesmerized  you, 
looking  at  it." 

"Never  you  mind.  You  do  as  I  tell  you.  I'll 
boss  this  trip,  and  if  we  don't  make  anything,  we 
don't  lose  anything." 

Johns  shook  his  head  obstinately. 

"See  here,"  he  wrote,  "if  we  go  on  the  cross, 
we're  finished." 

"We  sha'n't  go  on  the  cross  unless  the  road's 
open.  I'm  not  a  flat  any  more  than  you  are.  Do 
as  I  tell  you." 

"I  don't  fancy  it." 

"You  make  me  tired.  Have  I  ever  let  you 
down?" 

"No;  but  breaking  into  the  Treasury  vaults  is 
easier  than  this." 

"Never  you  mind.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  Let  Vaw- 
[287] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

drey  think  the  necklace  is  in  London,  and  we'll 
see  what  happens  when  we  get  there." 

She  put  the  slate  aside  without  giving  him  an 
opportunity  to  reply.  Luke  Johns  got  out  of  bed 
and  began  to  dress. 

In  the  middle  of  shaving  he  laid  down  his  razor 
and  came  back  to  her  room.  He  took  up  the  slate 
and  wrote:  "I  can't  see  it.  I've  got  to  meet  Por- 
ton  to-morrow,  and  suppose  I  do  fend  off  inquiry 
for  a  time,  it  leads  nowhere  and  looks  queer." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  dealt  patiently  with  him.  She 
answered:  "Just  so.  You're  worrying  yourself 
about  something  which  likely  won't  happen.  I  tell 
you,  I've  got  no  plan — only  an  idea.  All  I  say  is, 
keep  the  necklace  so  long  as  you  don't  have  to  risk 
anything." 

"Give  me  a  pointer  how  you're  steering.  I 
can't  see." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  sucked  the  pencil  and  consid- 
ered how  she  could  put  her  nebulous  idea  into  an 
intelligible  form.  It  was  so  nebulous  that  in  words 
it  looked  foolish,  and  yet  she  felt  that  there  might 
be  some  good  in  it,  if  it  could  be  developed. 

"If,"  she  wrote,  "we  made  them  believe  we 
hadn't  got  it " 

Luke  Johns  blew  out  his  cheeks  and  then 
laughed. 

"You've  got  quit,"  he  answered.  "But  seems  to 
me  this  idea's  just  a  pastime." 

"Think  it  over.  At  worst,  you  can  deliver  up 
[288] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

the  necklace  to-morrow  or  next  day  and  take  a 
check." 

He  was  turning  to  go  back  to  his  dressing-room 
when  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  She  took  the 
slate  again  and  wrote : 

"Would  you  do  it,  if  the  way  was  clear?" 

He  hesitated.  He  had  done  scores  of  dishonest 
and  mean  things  in  the  interest  of  clients,  but  he 
had  never  yet  been  dishonest  to  benefit  himself. 
He  did  not  like  the  suggestion,  less  perhaps  from 
any  reason  of  morality  than  because  he  knew  the 
pitfalls  which  lay  in  the  path  of  the  transgressor. 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  His 
wife  watched  him  shrewdly  and  noted  his  inde- 
cision. Presently  she  rose  quietly  from  her  seat  and 
went  to  the  bed.  Slipping  her  hand  under  the  pil- 
low she  drew  out  the  necklace  and  spread  it  on  the 
sheet.  It  lay  there,  quivering  in  the  sunlight,  a 
thin  line  of  stones,  yet  uncannily  alive  and  serpent- 
like.  Johns  came  and  stood  beside  her,  looking 
down  at  it  with  kindling  eyes. 

"Yes,  by  gum!"  he  said.  "If  there's  a  safe 
way." 

The  favorite  drama  of  Adam  and  Eve  had  been 
staged  once  more. 

Breakfast  that  morning  was  earlier  than  usual 
and  was  a  hurried  meal.  Fraser  did  not  appear. 
Luke  Johns,  who  fully  appreciated  the  Gains  chef, 
was  the  first  to  begin  and  ,the  last  to  finish,  work- 
ing his  way  steadily  through  the  line  of  silver 
dishes  on  the  sideboard,  and  ending  with  cold 
[289] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

grouse  pie.  It  would  be  a  long  time,  he  guessed, 
before  he  tasted  the  equal  to  that  pie,  and  he  took 
a  second  helping.  But  when  Vawdrey  rose  he 
abandoned  the  last  elusive  drops  of  gravy  and  fol- 
lowed him  out  of  the  room. 

"I'd  like  a  word,"  he  said,  touching  Vawdrey  on 
the  arm. 

"Yes?    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"In  your  library." 

"Come  along.  But  we  haven't  got  many  min- 
utes; the  car  is  due." 

Luke  Johns  went  with  him  into  the  study  and 
shut  the  door. 

"About  the  necklace,"  he  said.  "We  know  who's 
got  it." 

"Eh  ?"  Vawdrey  exclaimed.  "You've  discovered 
something?" 

"Yes.     Fraser  took  it." 

"Good  God!     But  when  I  spoke  to  you  yester- 
day morning  you  hadn't  found  out  anything.    Are  ' 
you  sure?" 

"Positive.  And  I'll  tell  you  how  he  fixed  it. 
He  knew  Pfeiffer  slept  like  a  boa  constrictor,  and 
he  slid  down  a  rope  from  the  garret  window  and 
walked  in.  He'd  unbolted  the  door  into  Mrs. 
Dayrell-Wing's  room  the  night  before.  There 
wasn't  any  risk  about  it;  you  might  have  done  it 
yourself  if  you'd  thought  of  it  first." 

"Then  what  is  happening?  Does  he  admit  it? 
Have  you  confronted  him?" 

"Yes,  he  climbs  down  right  enough.    And  he's 
[290] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

going  through  to  London  to  wait  orders.  I  reck- 
oned you  didn't  want  a  flare  up  here,  and  it'll  all 
be  done  quietly." 

"Thanks,  yes.  I  appreciate  your  tact,"  Vawdrey 
said  thoughtfully.  "So  McVitie  was  wrong  in 
saying  that  no  one  entered  Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's 
room.  He  didn't  hit  on  the  idea  of  a  man  lowering 
himself  down  from  above.  How  did  you?" 

"Well,  I  guessed  it.  I'm  used  to  guessing,  and 
when  you're  used  to  it  you  sometimes  guess  right. 
It  came  to  me  when  I  was  walking  over  the  grass 
with  you  yesterday." 

"I  remember;  you  asked  me  who  slept  upstairs. 
I  didn't  see  your  point." 

"No?  Well,  all  at  once  it  struck  me  this  house 
kind  o'  lends  itself  to  trapeze  business.  One  win- 
dow over  another,  .and  the  door  in  the  middle,  like 
the  picture  on  a  box  of  bricks.  Guess  the  man  was 
short  of  notions  when  he  built  it." 

Vawdrey  laughed,  saying:  "They  liked  a  sym- 
metrical design  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Many 
of  us  like  it  still."  Then,  relapsing  into  gravity, 
he  went  on:  "I  suppose  there's  no  possibility  of 
doubt  about  this.  You  have  recovered  the  neck- 
lace?" 

"I  shall  recover  it,"  Johns  answered. 

"You  know  where  it  is?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?  If  Eraser  took  it,  it  would  be  in  the 
house." 

"No.    In  London." 

[291  ] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Then  he  sent  it  away — by  post,  I  suppose?" 

"Says  so.  I'm  not  fretting ;  I've  got  him  round 
the  neck." 

"Then  I  may  take  it  for  certain  that  the  robbery 
will  be  satisfactorily  cleared  up,  and  that  no  sus- 
picion will  attach  to  Mr.  Pfeiffer?  I  have  a  par- 
ticular reason  for  asking." 

"You  may  take  it  for  certain,  Mr.  Vawdrey.  I 
don't  say  Eraser's  going  to  jail;  likely  enough  it'll 
be  hushed  up." 

"For  every  one's  sake  I  hope  it  will  be.  I  only 
want  to  be  assured  that  there's  not  going  to  be 
any  doubt  about  Mr.  Pfeiffer." 

"That's  sure.    There'll  be  no  loose  ends." 

"Well,  I'm  greatly  relieved.  I'm  sorry  for 
Fraser,  very  sorry  indeed.  Sudden  temptation,  I 
suppose." 

"Just  so.  Couldn't  stand  seeing  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  flash  on  a  woman's  neck;  he's  not  the 
first." 

Gibson  came  in  to  announce  that  the  motor  was 
ready. 

"By  the  way,"  Vawdrey  said,  as  he  moved  to  the 
door,  "am  I  to  know  about  this?  It's  very  awk- 
ward." 

"Know  nothing.  Shake  Fraser  by  the  hand  as 
if  you  wanted  to  see  him  again  to-morrow." 

"I'll  try." 


[292] 


CHAPTER  II 

'  I  AHE  Vawdreys  stood  at  the  door  to  see  their 
-^  guests  depart,  and  when  the  motors  had  dis- 
appeared round  the  bend  of  the  drive  they  turned 
back  into  the  house. 

"Only  half-past  nine,"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  said, 
glancing  at  the  clock.  "I  shall  have  a  nice,  long 
morning  to  write  letters  before  the  others  come. 
Ethel  dear,  are  you  going  for  a  ride?" 

"No,  mother;   I  shall  stay  in  the  garden." 

Her  voice  was  lifeless  and  despondent,  for,  now 
that  they  were  alone,  she  could  not  make  an  effort 
to  appear  in  good  spirits.  The  accusation  against 
Pfeiffer  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  be- 
lieved him  to  be  innocent;  but,  as  day  after  day 
went  by,  the  weight  of  facts  against  him  seemed 
by  the  mere  lapse  of  time  to  grow  heavier.  "I 
won't  believe  it  of  him,"  she  said  to  herself  again 
and  again,  and  each  repetition  was  more  vehement 
than  the  last,  because  the  pressure  against  her  faith 
was  greater. 

Vawdrey  saw  how  near  to  breaking  down  she 
was.  He  slipped  his  arm  into  hers,  saying: 

"Come  along,  Ethel  girlie,  come  and  talk  to  me." 

"Yes,  father,"  she  answered  submissively. 

"Come  into  the  study  and  watch  me  smoke  a 
cigar.  It  tastes  twice  as  good  when  you're  there." 

[293] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"But  it's  such  a  nice  morning.  Why  not  the 
garden?" 

"No;  let's  sit  in  the  study.  I've  got  something 
to  tell  you — something  you  may  like  to  hear, 
perhaps." 

"Not  about ?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"Yes,  about "  he  answered,  smiling. 

A  light  flashed  into  her  eyes,  and  she  put  her 
hands  impulsively  on  his  shoulders  as  she  cried : 

"Oh,  father !  Best  and  dearest,  have  you  found 
out  something?  Tell  me  quickly." 

"Mayn't  I  light  my  cigar  first?" 

"Well,  make  haste.  Come  along.  You're  not — 
you're  not  going  to  be  disappointing?  I  can't  bear 
chaff  just  now." 

Vawdrey's  eyes  softened  as  he  looked  at  her. 
She  was  very  dear  to  him,  and  he  would  not  have 
thwarted  her  even  if  Pfeiffer  had  been  a  much  less 
eligible  son-in-law  than  he  was. 

"No;  bar  chaff,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  bit  of 
news  for  you.  Come  and  nestle  down  beside  me 
and  I'll  tell  you." 

She  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  put 
her  hand  in  his,  saying: 

"Well?" 

The  cigar  would  not  draw,  and  Vawdrey  was 
provokingly  slow  over  a  second  match.  At  last 
he  said: 

"Do  you  know,  that  little  American  bounder  has 
solved  the  mystery?" 

[294] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Johns?  What  has  he  to  do 
with  it?" 

"He  was  a  detective." 

"No!  Was  he?  Oh,  father,  did  you  really 
bring  him  in  because  the  Scotch  person  muddled  it 
so?  How  splendid  and  enterprising  of  you!" 

'7  didn't  bring  him  in — my  conscience  is  clear 
of  that.  But  I  let  him  come,  which  was  almost  as 
bad ;  and  ever  since,  I've  fervently  wished  I  hadn't. 
Still,  as  he  has  pulled  it  off,  I  suppose  it's  all  right 
now." 

"Tell  me,"  she  cried. 

"How  he  did  it,  goodness  only  knows.  But  he 
says  the  man  has  confessed,  and  he's  going  to  get 
the  necklace  in  London." 

"But  who  was  it?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  you've  guessed  it  wasn't  the 
stainless  Willie." 

"I  knew  that  all  along,"  she  boasted,  laughing. 

"And  how  do  you  think  it  was  done?" 

"But  I  want  to  know  who  it  was  first.  Was  it 
one  of  the  servants?" 

"No.    It  was  Fraser." 

"Oh!  How  perfectly  hateful!  What  could 
have  induced  him  to  do  such  a  thing?" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  the  usual  reason,  which  you  and 
I  don't  realize  the  force  of — want  of  money." 

"I  liked  him  rather,"  Ethel  said  slowly.  "He 
seemed  so  depressed,  as  if  he'd  had  a  bad  time." 

"I  suppose  he  had.  There  was  a  screw  loose 
somewhere." 

[295] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"How  was  it  found  out?" 

"I  don't  really  know.  Johns  didn't  say  much; 
we  only  had  a  minute  together,  just  before  he  left. 
But  it  appears  that  Fraser  let  himself  down  from 
the  window  above  Willie's,  went  through  into 
Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room,  bagged  the  necklace, 
and  climbed  up  again.  It  looks  simple  enough; 
in  fact,  Johns  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  I  might 
have  done  it  myself  if  I'd  thought  of  it  first." 

"That  accounts  for  there  being  no  trace  of  a 
ladder." 

"Yes.  Our  worthy  Scotchman  didn't  think  of 
that.  He'll  be  a  little  bit  vexed  when  he  hears." 

"That's  a  good  thing.  He  was  perfectly  odious. 
Poor  little  Johns  and  his  wife  were  a  thousand 
times  nicer;  really,  he  was  rather  a  dear." 

"I  daresay  he  wasn't  so  bad,  only  I  was  so  sick 
at  having  him  here.    You  know  it  was  he  who  ran- 
sacked Mrs.  Dayrell-Wing's  room  and  read  all  her 
, letters  " 

"Was  it?    How  funny!" 

"Awfully  funny!  It  worried  me  nearly  out  of 
my  senses." 

There  was  a  pause.  Ethel  sat  playing  with  the 
jade  ball  which  hung  from  a  long  chain  round  her 
neck.  She  was  dreaming,  and  the  dream  was  evi- 
dently pleasant,  for  a  soft,  happy  glow  brightened 
her  gray  eyes.  Presently  she  turned  to  her  father, 
and  nestling  closer  to  him  said: 

"Dada,  what  shall  we  do?" 

She  rarely  used  the  old  pet  name. 
[296] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"Go  for  a  walk,  I  should  think,"  he  laughed 
back  at  her. 

"Stupid  dada!     I  mean  about — Willie." 

"Oh,  about  Willie?  Well,  suppose  we  wait  till 
we  get  back  to  town?" 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  meant — shall 
we  telegraph?" 

"I  shouldn't  do  that.  It  would  be  so  bad  for 
the  postmistress." 

"Then  write.  He  could  get  here  to-morrow 
evening." 

Vawdrey  stroked  her  hand  gently. 

"Quite  sure,  little  girl?  Certain  you  know  what 
you  want?" 

"Quite.     Absolutely  quite." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  must  sail  your  own  boat  in 
your  own  way;  and,  if  you  know  your  own  mind, 
I'm  not  going  to  interfere.  Run  away  and  write 
your  letter,  dear,  and  I'll  write  too.  I've  got  to 
apologize." 

"Dearest!" 

"No,  little  girl,  only  second  dearest  now,"  he 
answered,  drawing  her  closer  and  kissing  her. 

When  Ethel  had  left  him  he  went  in  search  of 
his  wife,  whom  he  found  in  the  drawing-room 
dealing  with  some  heavy  arrears  of  family 
correspondence. 

"How  much  has  Ethel  told  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"What  about?" 

"About  Willie." 

"Why,  nothing.     Is  there ?" 

[297] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"He  came  to  me  a  week  ago  and  asked  my 
consent." 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Ethel  hasn't 
said  a  word.  Is  that  why  he  left  so  suddenly?" 

"I  didn't  tell  you  because  I  was  worried  to  death 
about  it." 

"I  don't  see.  If  she  likes  him —  You  always 
said  you  weren't  ambitious  about  her  marrying, 
and  I  feel  the  same." 

"That's  all  right;  but  his  proposal  came  at  an 
awkward  moment.  Emily,  I've  been  keeping  you 
in  the  dark,  because  it  didn't  seem  any  good  up- 
setting you;  but  I've  been  having  a  stormy  time." 

"What's  the  matter?  I  do  wish  you'd  tell  me 
things,  Tom.  You  know  you  always  have  to  in 
the  end." 

"Well,  this  wretched  woman's  beastly  necklace 
— that's  been  the  trouble.  That  Scotch  owl  came 
here  and  sifted  things  out;  and,  when  Willie  in- 
terviewed me  about  Ethel,  he'd  just  told  me  that 
Willie  was  the  only  possible  person  who  could 
have  taken  it." 

"Good  gracious!    And  had  he?" 

"It  looked  awfully  like  it,  and  I  bundled  him 
off  hotfoot.  Of  course,  he  told  Ethel,  and  I  had  a 
job  to  prevent  her  from  doing  something  silly; 
but  at  last  I  persuaded  her  to  look  on  and  see  what 
happened.  I've  been  simply  praying  that  they'd 
get  evidence  enough  to  arrest  him." 

"What  an  extraordinary  story.  I  should  like  to 
know  why  I  wasn't  told,"  poor  Mrs.  Vawdrey  ex- 
[298] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

claimed  with  rising  indignation.  "It's  too  ridicu- 
lous to  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  child  in  the  nursery." 

"Well,  dear,  I  acted  for  the  best.  And,  besides, 
I  thought  Ethel  would  confide  in  you." 

"She  has  never  said  a  syllable.  You  know  how 
fond  she  is  of  being  secretive.  Of  course,  I  knew 
she  liked  Willie,  and  he  was  always  very  pleasant. 
But  now —  It's  really  dreadful." 

"Stop  a  bit.  You  haven't  had  half  the  story 
yet." 

"Then  pray  go  on.  I  shall  have  to  postpone  my 
letter  to  Maria." 

"You'll  have  something  to  tell  her  after  this. 
Well,  to  continue.  As  if  McVitie  wasn't  enough, 
we  had  another  detective  thrust  upon  us — Mr. 
Luke  Johns." 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  bounced  in  her  chair. 

"A  detective !  I  wondered  why  you  asked  that 
common  little  American  and  his  wife  to  stay.  I 
might  have  known  there  was  something  behind  it." 

"Perhaps  you  might.  It  was  the  silliest  thing 
I  ever  did,  I  believe ;  but  it  turned  out  right.  He's 
unravelled  the  whole  story  and  caught  the  thief  and 
carried  him  off  to  London." 

"Who  was  it?  No  one  in  the  house,  I'm  sure, 
unless  it  was  Tipton." 

"Eraser." 

"Mercy  upon  us !"  Mrs.  Vawdrey  cried  in  much 
agitation.  "He  stole  the  necklace?  You  can't  be 
serious." 

[2991 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"I  am.  And  that's  the  end  of  the  story,  as  far 
as  we're  concerned." 

"Oh,  Tom!    To  think  of  it!    How  dreadful !" 

"Don't  let's  think  of  it;  there's  something  else 
to  think  of  now.  I've  told  Ethel,  and  she's  up- 
stairs writing  half  a  ream  to  Willie,  to  bring  him 
back  by  the  next  train." 

"You've  upset  me  so  I  can't  think  of  anything," 
poor,  stout  Mrs.  Vawdrey  cried.  "Ring  for  Gib- 
son. I  must  have  my  salts." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  murmured, 
when  the  salts  had  been  brought.  "You  and  Ethel 
between  you  are  always  carrying  me  off  my  feet. 
You  bought  Gains  in  such  a  hurry  that  I  didn't 
even  know  whether  there  was  a  cupboard  to  put  a 
blanket  in.  You're  so  impetuous,  Tom." 

"Life's  too  short  to  argue  everything  out." 

"And  this  engagement — I  can't  decide  all  in  a 
moment.  I  like  Willie,  he's  always  so  pleasant; 
but  as  a  husband  for  Ethel— 

"Why,  you  said  a  moment  ago  that  you  didn't 
see  any  objection  if  she  liked  him." 

"Well,  if  I  did,  I  don't  want  to  be  driven  into 
it  without  an  instant  to  look  round." 

"Hadn't  you  better  talk  it  over  with  the  child. 
She'll  tell  you  much  more  than  I  can." 

"Of  course  I  must  talk  it  over.  I'll  go  to  her 
at  once." 

Left  to  himself,  Vawdrey  went  into  his  study 
and  sat  down  to  write  to  Pfeiffer;  for  he  knew  his 
wife  too  well  to  doubt  her  consent  to  the  engage- 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

ment  as  soon  as  she  was  satisfied  that  Ethel  wanted 
to  marry  him.  He  lighted  another  cigar  and 
began : 

"Mv  DEAR  WILLIE: 

"I  owe  you  a  very  sincere  apology  for 
what  I  said  when  we  met  last.  Circum- 
stances, of  which  you  will  learn  later,  put 
us  at  cross  purposes;  and,  in  expressing  my 
real  and  deep  regret,  I  can  only  hope  that 
when  you  know  the  whole  story  you  will 
acquit  me  of  evil. 

"Ethel  is  writing  to  you,  asking  you  to 
run  up  here  for  a  few  more  days'  shooting. 
Please  come.  /  never  refuse  her  anything, 
and  I  hope  you  will  follow  the  same  rule — 
now  and  in  the  future. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"T.  VAWDREY." 

Apparently,  Ethel  had  little  difficulty  in  satisfy- 
ing her  mother  that  Willie  Pfeiffer  was  beyond 
criticism;  for,  soon  after  Vawdrey  had  finished 
his  letter  they  came  into  the  study  together. 

"Then  has  the  child  got  her  way  once  more?" 
Vawdrey  said. 

"Oh,  Tom,  it's — it's  very  upsetting.  But  she 
seems  so  sure  of  herself,  and  Willie  is  very  nice. 
I've  always  said  so." 

"But  you've  never  thought  of  him  as  a  son-in- 
law?  Now,  that's  odd." 

[301] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

Ethel  put  her  arms  round  his  shoulders,  saying: 
"You're  not  to  tease  mums.  She's  been  perfectly 
angelic." 

"And  what  about  me?  Haven't  I  been  angelic, 
too?" 

"Of  course,  you  both  are — dear  things!" 

"This,"  Vawdrey  said,  "is  getting  too  much  like 
the  last  act  of  a  melodrama.  Bless  you,  my  chil- 
dren, and  totter  off.  That's  what  I've  said  to 
Willie,"  he  added,  handing  his  letter  to  his  wife. 

She  read  it  and  passed  it  on  to  Ethel. 

"Thank  you,  father,"  Ethel  said.  "Now  I'm 
going  straight  off  to  the  post." 

Vawdrey  and  his  wife  watched  her  out  of  the 
room. 

"We  shall  miss  her,"  he  said  wistfully. 

Mrs.  Vawdrey  sniffed,  and  found  that  she  had 
mislaid  her  handkerchief. 


[302] 


CHAPTER  III 

ROM  Edinburgh  Luke  Johns  sent  a  telegram 
to  Porton : 

"Leslie  Fraser  arrives  London  to-night 
10.45.  Business  almost  through.  I  will 
call  to-morrow  morning.  JOHNS/' 

By  a  natural  adjustment,  the  other  members  of 
the  party  had  taken  a  carriage  between  them,  leav- 
ing the  Luke  Johns  to  find  seats  in  the  next  com- 
partment; and  save  in  the  dining-car,  and  for  a 
hurried  moment  on  arrival  at  King's  Cross,  Fraser 
was  free  from  the  burden  of  their  presence.  They 
were  as  well  pleased  as  he  was  at  this,  for  they  had 
a  problem  to  think  out — the  most  delicate  and  the 
most  important  which  had  ever  occupied  their 
acute  minds.  Although  they  were  alone  for  a  good 
part  of  the  journey  they  scarcely  exchanged  a  word. 
Mrs.  Luke  Johns  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
looking  out  of  the  window  with  eyes  which  saw 
nothing  except  the  flash  of  a  thin  line  of  stones. 
Her  husband  intermittently  read  a  newspaper  and 
picked  his  teeth. 

The  next  morning  they  woke  early,  for  after  the 
keen  air  of  Scotland  the  boarding-house  in  Blooms- 
bury  was  intolerably  hot  and  stuffy.  Johns  got  out 
of  bed  and  fetched  the  slate,  and  they  began  the 
discussion  which  both  of  them  had  been  putting 

[303] 


i 

THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

off  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  definite  plan  to  pro- 
pound. 

"Anything?"  Johns  wrote. 

"Nothing  much." 

"I've  got  to  see  Porton  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  nodded. 

"And  give  him  the  necklace." 

"Don't  do  it.  Remember  what  I  said.  Keep  it 
as  long  as  you  can." 

"But  he's  got  to  have  it.  There's  no  way  out, 
far  as  I  see.  If  he  doesn't  have  it  to-day,  what 
yarn  can  I  tell  him?  And  later,  when  he  gets  it, 
he'll  want  to  know  why  I've  been  keeping  it. 
There's  no  sense  in  taking  risks  for  nothing." 

Mrs.  Johns'  forehead  was  puckered  with  the 
stress  of  thinking.  She  took  the  pencil  and  held  it 
suspended  for  a  moment.  Then  she  put  it  down, 
straining  her  hands  across  her  eyes.  Johns  waited. 

Presently  she  began  to  write  slowly,  as  if  con- 
sidering the  exact  value  of  each  word. 

"Put  it  this  way :  Tell  him  what  we've  done  and 
that  you've  brought  Fraser  up ;  but  don't  say  you 
found  him  in  the  attic.  Cover  that  up,  and  let 
him  think  we  managed  some  other  way.  Say  the 
necklace  is  in  London,  and  that  Fraser  will  hand  it 
over,  but  wants  to  know  first  whether  they  will 
prosecute.  Don't  make  it  out  a  condition,  but  sug- 
gest that  if  they  prosecute  it  won't  be  so  easy  to 
get.  Go  on  and  say  there's  some  one  else  in  the 
business.  Say  Fraser  told  you  the  necklace  is  in 
a  safe  place." 

[304] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

She  stopped,  and  Johns,  after  considering  what 
she  had  written,  answered: 

"You're  not  looking  all  round  this  story. 
There's  a  big  lot  of  risks  in  it.  Suppose  he  sees 
Fraser,  and  it  comes  out  we've  had  it  all  along, 
I'd  sing  pretty  small.  And,  anyway,  it  only  gives 
us  a  few  more  hours.  If  he  doesn't  have  it  to-day 
he's  got  to  have  it  to-morrow,  and  it'll  queer  us 
properly  if  he  starts  asking  questions." 

"No,  it  won't.  If  they  get  the  necklace  they'll 
swallow  most  everything  you  say.  You  can  slip 
out  by  saying  Fraser  asked  you  to  do  the  best  for 
him,  so  you  put  it  that  way  trying  to  get  him  off. 
You're  real  sorry  for  him — see?" 

"I  don't  fancy  it.  It's  too  much  of  a  tight-rope 
excursion.  Likely  enough  we'll  lose  the  reward  and 
the  necklace  too." 

"Not  if  you're  smart.    You  can  do  it." 

"Where's  it  leading?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  the  way  clear  a  step 
farther.  But  I've  got  a  feeling  that  necklace  is 
ours  if  we've  got  grit  enough,  and  we'll  go  on 
keeping  it  till  we  have  to  pass  it  on.  Things  hap- 
pen; and  when  it's  all  dark  some  flat  turns  the  gas 
on  for  you." 

Johns  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"I'm  as  keen  as  you  are,"  he  wrote,  "but  this 
isn't  the  road  home.  If  I'd  had  sense  I'd  have 
searched  the  attic  and  found  the  necklace  myself 
when  I  first  went  up  there ;  and  then  we  could  have 

[305] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

hopped  it  easy  enough.    But  Eraser's  going  to  blab 
if  we  trick  him — you  may  bet  on  that." 

"Not  if  we  can  get  the  right  kind  of  pull  on 
him." 

"And  how  can  you?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

Johns  stroked  his  cheek  reflectively  as  he  bent 
his  mind  to  this  possibility.  He  thought  he  had 
never  met  one  less  promising. 

"Well,"  he  wrote  at  last,  "I'll  go  on,  as  you  say 
so.  And  I'll  reel  this  yarn  off  to  Porton  and  see 
what  he  says." 

"When  you've  seen  him  come  right  back  here. 
I'll  wait.  And  keep  him  off  going  direct  to  Eraser; 
have  the  deal  left  in  your  hands.  That's  urgent." 

Johns,  with  a  gloomy  face,  slid  off  the  bed  and 
began  to  dress. 

Soon  after  eleven  o'clock  he  was  shown  into 
Mr.  Porton's  room  at  the  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields.  The  hot,  dusty  atmosphere,  the  tin  boxes 
and  bundles  of  papers,  and  the  secluded  quietness 
of  the  big  room,  combined  with  the  inflexible  lines 
of  Porton's  legal  face  to  send  his  spirits  down  with 
a  run.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  made  of  glass — 
a  figure  to  be  seen  through  and  then  broken  in 
pieces.  He  felt  the  perspiration  breaking  out  all 
over  his  body,  and  he  furtively  wiped  a  damp  hand 
on  his  trousers. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Johns,"  Porton  said,  rising 
from  his  chair.     "I  got  your  very  satisfactory  tele- 
[306] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

gram,  and  I  hope  I  may  now  congratulate  you  on 
completing  an  excellent  piece  of  work — may  I?" 

"Thanks.     We're  in  train." 

"But  I  didn't  understand  your  mention  of 
Fraser.  Was  it  the  lady,  as  we  thought?" 

"No.    Eraser's  our  man." 

"Nonsense !  You  astonish  me.  The  Erasers 
are  a  very  old  and  well-connected  family.  I 
couldn't  have  thought  it  possible.  Dear,  dear! 
Very  sad." 

"It's  often  the  cleanest  one  of  the  crowd  that 
does  the  dirtiest  jobs." 

Luke  Johns  was  beginning  to  recover  his  nerve, 
and  when  Porton  asked  him  how  he  came  to  suspect 
Fraser  he  answered  with  more  ease. 

"Can't  say  we  did  suspect  him.  We  settled  the 
lady  wasn't  in  it,  and  that  stranded  us;  there 
didn't  seem  any  more  for  us  to  do.  All  the  same, 
we  didn't  believe  the  Pfeiffer  story,  so  we  kept  on 
looking  round." 

"And  then?" 

"Well,  the  point  was  how  anybody  got  into  the 
room.  He  didn't  come  down  the  chimney  or 
through  the  door,  and  the  Scotch  detective  swore 
there  were  no  footmarks  under  the  window,  though 
the  gravel  was  soft  enough  to  show  where  the  bugs 
had  walked." 

"He'd  raked  it  over?" 

"No,  and  he  hadn't  come  by  aeroplane  either. 
Guess  he  would  have  in  a  Sunday  Supplement  story, 
but  this  plot  wasn't  made  to  sell  at  ten  cents." 

[307] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"How  did  he  get  in,  then?" 

"It  fair  puzzled  me,  but  I  struck  it  right  at  last. 
And  when  I  went  to  look,  it  was  plain  as  daylight, 
rope  and  all.  He'd  taken  a  tip  from  the  angels 
and  come  from  above." 

"By  Jove!     How  did  you  find  it  out?" 

'  'Just — guessing. ' ' 

"But  even  then  you  didn't  know  who  it  was." 

"We  guessed  again.  I  had  a  talk  with  Eraser, 
and  he  folded  up  as  easy  as  a  parlor  bed." 

"Good.     Very  good  indeed.    When  was  that?" 

"Yesterday  morning." 

"And  the  necklace?    Have  you  got  it?" 

Johns  had  it  in  his  pocket,  in  case  it  should  be 
wanted.  One  never  knew  what  turn  a  conversation 
might  take.  Now,  half-unconsciously,  he  felt  for 
it;  but  he  answered  without  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelid : 

"It's  close  handy." 

"Where  is  it?    Didn't  he  hand  it  over?" 

"Well,  it's  this  way.     He's  parted  with  it." 

Porton  was  startled  and  said  energetically: 
"Good  Lord!  Then  some  one  was  in  with  him? 
We  may  miss  it  yet.  Has  he  confessed  who?" 

"I  don't  know  who's  in  with  him.  He  told  me 
he'd  parted  with  it,  but  he  reckons  he  can  lay  his 
hand  on  it  right  enough.  I'm  going  to  get  it 
to-day." 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake  do  so.  Don't  delay 
an  instant." 

Johns  took  a  deep  breath. 
[308] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"I've  fixed  to  get  it,"  he  answered,  "but  he  asked 
me  to  see  you  first.  He'd  like  to  know  whether 
you're  going  to  prosecute." 

Porton  shot  a  keen  glance  at  Johns. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  he  said.  "If  we  prosecute, 
we  can  whistle  for  the  necklace.  Young  black- 
guard !  I'd  like  to  get  him  seven  years." 

Johns  said  nothing.  Porton  fumed  and  tapped 
the  desk  angrily  with  his  pencil. 

"Why  did  you  let  him  out  of  your  sight?"  he 
asked  in  a  sharp  tone.  "Why  didn't  you  wire  me 
to  have  him  shadowed  when  he  arrived  last  night?" 

"I  did  wire.  I  supposed  you  would  shadow  him. 
I  gave  you  the  office  as  plain's  I  could  in  a  tele- 
gram." 

"It  conveyed  nothing  of  the  kind  to  me.  You 
said,  'Business  almost  through.'  ' 

"So  it  is.  You're  worrying  about  nothing. 
Come  to  that,  what's  the  use  of  shadowing  him? 
He  said  the  necklace  was  in  London  in  a  safe 
place.  'Tisn't  likely  he'd  lay  the  scent  for  us  right 
up  to  the  door." 

Johns  was  getting  into  deep  water.  He  had 
made  Porton  angry — perhaps  suspicious — and  he 
was  not  sure  that  he  would  be  able  to  explain  away 
all  he  had  said  if  he  was  obliged  to  surrender  the 
necklace.  He  wished  fervently  that  he  had  dis- 
regarded his  wife's  advice  and  had  put  the  necklace 
on  the  table  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room.  Even 
now  it  was  not  too  late.  He  could  whip  it  out  and 
tell  Porton  he  had  been  chaffing  him.  He  slid  his 

[309] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

hand  again  into  his  pocket.  If  Porton  pressed  his 
inquiries  further  he  would  own  up. 

But,  when  Porton  spoke  again,  his  annoyance 
seemed  to  have  passed.  He  had  abandoned  use- 
less regrets  for  the  real  business  of  recovering  the 
necklace. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  more  easily,  "what's  done 
can't  be  helped,  and  I  daresay,  with  your  experience 
in  handling  scoundrels,  you've  taken  the  best 
course.  The  point  now  is,  how  far  can  we  rely  on 
Fraser?  Can  he  get  it  back  from  whoever  has  it? 
And  will  he?" 

"I'd  say  yes." 

"You  know,  this  is  a  damning  light  on  his 
character — he's  done  this  before.  He's  too  wide- 
awake for  a  novice." 

Johns  did  not  answer.  He  was  still  feeling  very 
uncomfortable. 

"It's  beyond  doubt,"  Porton  continued.  "It 
looks  to  me  as  if  he  was  one  of  a  country-house 
gang.  These  robberies  are  always  happening." 

"Yes.    It's  a  popular  industry." 

"We  certainly  ought  to  prosecute;  but  it  seems 
to  me  he's  got  us  in  his  hands." 

"He  didn't  say  he  wouldn't  bail  up  if  you 
prosecuted." 

"No;  but  he  meant  it.  That  kind  of  gentry 
doesn't  dot  every  i.  What  do  you  think  yourself? 
You  saw  him." 

"I  think,"  Johns  answered  slowly,  "there'll  be 
difficulties  if  he  doesn't  get  his  free  pass." 

[310] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"So  do  I.  But,  upon  my  soul,  if  my  clients 
weren't  so  heavily  interested  I'd  get  a  warrant  out 
and  chance  it." 

"Don't  do  it  that  way.  Leave  him  to  me.  If 
you're  going  to  prosecute,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

"It's  too  risky,  it's  too  risky.  We've  got  to  re- 
cover the  necklace.  You'll  have  to  tell  him  that 
we'll  take  no  steps,  provided  it's  in  our  possession 
by  midday  to-morrow." 

"All  right,"  Johns  said,  rising.  "I  think  I'll 
bring  it." 

"I  hope  to  heaven  you  will,  for  your  sake  as  well 
as  ours.  There's  a  pretty  big  check  waiting  for 
you — pay  for  your  holiday  and  leave  a  bit 
over — eh?" 

"I  can  do  with  it." 

"Well,  then,  you'll  see  Eraser  at  once.  And  if 
you  have  any  news,  come  round  or  telephone.  You 
can  get  me  here  all  day." 

"I've  agreed  to  see  him  this  afternoon,"  Johns 
said,  wishing  to  gain  as  much  time  as  possible. 

"Oh.  I  suppose  he's  out  now,  fetching  it.  Con- 
found it !  I  wish  he'd  been  watched.  However, 
twelve  o'clock  to-morrow — not  a  moment  longer." 

"That's  right.    You  may  count  on  me." 

Luke  Johns  left  Porton's  office  overweighted  by 
the  consciousness  that  he  had  started  himself  on  a 
perilous  adventure,  which  might  lead  him  to  a 
place  far  different  from  the  little  house  down 
South.  Already  he  was  not  sure  how  he  had  fared 
or  whether  a  way  of  retreat  was  still  open.  One 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

thing  only  was  certain  and  satisfactory — the  neck- 
lace was  still  in  his  side-pocket.  He  put  his  hand 
on  it,  and  the  feel  of  it  under  the  paper  gave  him 
courage. 

His  wife  was  watching  for  him  at  the  boarding- 
house,  and  they  went  upstairs  together.  She  was 
excited,  but  she  did  not  betray  it,  and  she  waited 
quietly  while  he  unlocked  his  suit-case  and  took  out 
the  slate. 

"I've  still  got  it,"  he  wrote.  "But  if  he'd  said 
another  word  I'd  have  been  bluffed  into  parting. 
I  made  out  Fraser  passed  it  before  he  was  nabbed. 
He  judged  some  one  was  in  with  him,  and  got  riled 
because  I  hadn't  wired  to  shadow  him." 

"Go  on,"  Mrs.  Luke  Johns  answered. 

"I  asked  him  about  prosecuting,  and  he  got 
madder  than  ever.  Wanted  to  arrest  Fraser  right 
away  and  chance  getting  the  necklace.  I  put  him 
off  that  and  he  quieted  down  some,  and  agreed 
they  wouldn't  prosecute  if  the  necklace  was  handed 
over  by  twelve  to-morrow.  I  told  him  I  had  a 
meeting  fixed  with  Fraser  for  after  lunch." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"That's  all.  But  we're  in  up  to  the  knees,  I 
reckon.  I  didn't  say  more  than  I  had  to,  but  it'll 
take  a  lot  of  explaining.  I  wish  we  weren't  in 
this,  I  do  fairly.  Looks  as  if  we  couldn't  miss  get- 
ting nipped  somewhere." 

"If  you  only  said  what  you've  told  me,  you've 
done  it  well." 

"I'm  afraid." 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"Why?  Supposing  it  does  come  out,  it'll  puzzle 
them;  but  when  they've  got  the  necklace,  they 
won't  worry.  What  can  Porton  do  to  us?" 

"Nothing,  if  we  hand  out  and  get  the  dollars." 

"Then  don't  fret." 

"Have  you  thought  of  anything  fresh?"  Luke 
Johns  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Mrs.  Luke  Johns  shook  her  head. 

"There's  no  way,"  she  wrote,  with  evident  reluc- 
tance. "Seems  as  if  we'll  just  have  to  take  the 
money  and  be  pleased  with  that." 

"I  thought  so  all  along.  Still,  I'll  kick  myself 
having  to  part  with  it." 

"Would  you  risk  a  bolt?" 

"No.  Not  for  a  million,"  he  answered  em- 
phatically. 

"Then  we'll  have  to  play  the  game." 

"That's  so.  I'll  have  to  see  Fraser  this  after- 
noon. Think  I'll  tell  him  to  get  abroad  for  a  bit, 
in  case  he  says  anything." 

Mrs.  Johns  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 
She  stood  looking  out  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
resting  her  chin  on  her  hand.  Then  she  turned 
and  came  back  to  where  Johns  was  sitting.  She 
took  the  pencil  and  wrote : 

"Don't  go  to  his  rooms.  See  him  somewhere 
outside." 

Johns  looked  at  her  with  narrowed  eyes.  She 
had  got  an  idea,  and  renewed  hope  set  his  heart 
thumping. 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"Why?"  he  wrote.    "I  thought  you'd  given  up." 

"I  have — almost.  But  don't  go  to  his  rooms. 
Don't  ask  why,  because  I  don't  know.  The  feel- 
ing's in  my  bones  you'd  best  not  be  seen  there." 

Johns'  face  fell.  Even  his  clever  wife  had  her 
illogical  moments,  he  thought. 

"But  I  said  I'd  go.  He's  waiting  there  for  me 
to  'phone  him." 

"Well,  'phone  him  to  meet  you  somewhere  else," 
she  cried,  her  temper  giving  way  under  the  strain 
which  she  had  been  enduring.  "You  make  me 
tired,  Luke,  with  your  bald-headed  fool  talk." 

Johns,  the  patient  husband,  yielded  to  her. 
After  all,  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  went  to 
Eraser's  rooms  or  met  him  elsewhere,  and  his  wife 
seemed  set  on  it.  She  was  about  used  up,  that  was 
the  truth;  and  as  soon  as  they  had  cashed  Porton's 
check  they  would  get  over  to  Paris  and  put  this 
thing  behind  them. 

"All  right,"  he  said  quietly,  "I'll  ring  him  up." 


[3i4] 


CHAPTER  IV 

*  I  AHE  high  value  which  religion  puts  upon  a 
-••  contrite  heart  is  not  so  arbitrary  as  it  seems. 
For,  while  an  expression  of  regret  for  a  wrong 
discovered  slips  off  the  tongue  no  less  easily  than 
any  other  lie,  the  feeling  which  prompts  it  is 
usually  no  deeper  than  a  desire  to  be  rid  of  a  mis- 
take as  cheaply  as  possible.  The  contrite  heart  is 
rare,  much  rarer  than  optimists  would  have  us  be- 
lieve— so  rare  that  it  is  specially  singled  out  as  an 
acceptable  peace-offering. 

Fraser  was  contrite;  and  therein  let  him  find 
compassion  before  the  tribunal  of  the  Pharisees  as 
well  as  before  that  of  the  Publicans.  The  journey 
from  Scotland,  following  upon  a  sleepless  night, 
was  an  ordeal  savage  enough  to  break  the  strongest 
spirit.  His  companions  were  in  a  gay  mood — the 
gayer,  perhaps,  at  ending  a  visit  on  which  a  shadow 
had  been  cast — and  he  was  forced  to  bear  his  part 
in  the  laughter  and  foolish  conversation.  On  the 
platform  at  King's  Cross  he  sought  out  Luke  Johns 
and  begged  him  once  more  to  do  what  was  possible. 
Johns  promised  to  telephone  or  call  on  him  the 
next  day,  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  Porton. 

The  appearance  of  his  rooms  gave  Fraser  a 
strange  feeling  of  a  return  to  reality.  They  were 
so  entirely  familiar,  so  much  a  part  of  his  life  as  he 
had  lived  it  until  he  went  to  Gains  that  the  fort- 
night which  had  elapsed  since  he  left  them  seemed 

[3151 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

to  belong  to  a  separate  existence.  It  was  like  a 
nightmare  which  had  harassed  him  until  he  awoke 
to  find  it  gone. 

That  was  for  a  moment.  Then  the  crushing 
blow  swung  in  upon  him — his  former  life  was  the 
dream  which  was  past;  it  was  to  horror  and  dis- 
grace that  he  had  awakened.  Everything  was 
gone — his  name,  his  position,  his  easy,  cynical  con- 
tentment. Gone,  blown  to  the  winds  by  a  tempta- 
tion which  he  had  not  been  strong  enough  to 
master. 

Mechanically,  he  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 
For  a  long  time- he  lay  awake,  and  when  sleep  at 
last  came  it  was  torn  by  dreams.  He  lived  over 
again  the  moment  in  the  attic,  and  saw  the  iron 
glint  of  Johns'  eyes  as  he  covered  him  with  his 
revolver.  Then  the  scene  changed,  and  out  of  the 
darkness  sprang  a  vision  of  unholy  light.  A  Thing, 
which  moved  sinuously  toward  him,  flashing  and 
coiling,  coming  close  to  him  and  breaking  away, 
then  advancing  upon  him  again,  nearer,  nearer, 
nearer 

He  awoke  with  a  scream  of  terror  and 
sprang  up. 

"What  was  it?  What  was  it?"  he  cried  in  a 
dazed  voice. 

He  was  subject  to  fits  of  neuralgia,  and  when 
morning  came  he  was  racked  by  a  blinding  head- 
ache. He  could  eat  nothing,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  like 
the  cordials  of  the  torture-chamber,  served  only  to 
increase  his  capacity  for  suffering.  He  looked  at 
[316] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

his  watch.  It  was  not  much  past  eight,  and  he 
could  not  expect  to  see  Johns  before  eleven. 

Supposing  they  let  him  off,  he  thought.  Even 
so,  people  would  know  about  it.  The  Vawdreys 
would  know,  and  Drury,  and  probably  Mrs.  Day- 
rell-Wing.  And  they  would  talk — did  they  ever 
fail  to  talk!  He  must  leave  England;  he  could 
not  show  his  face  in  London,  to  risk  a  cut  direct 
from  one  or  another.  Oh,  he  knew  the  cruelty  of 
it — the  averted  eyes,  the  bolder  stare  which  looked 
at  you  and  through  you,  seeing  nothing;  the  silence 
which  fell  as  you  entered  the  club  smoking-room; 
the  quiet  retreat  of  men  from  the  chairs  near  you. 
Had  he  not  seen  it?  There  was  Haley,  the  poor 
devil  who  put  his  uncle's  name  on  a  bill.  Nothing 
was  done,  but  every  one  knew  about  it,  and  called 
him  shameless  because  he  tried  to  live  it  down. 
Live  it  down !  He  stood  it  for  three  months,  and 
then  shot  himself  in  a  squalid  hotel  in  Paris. 

He  would  not  make  Haley's  mistake.  He 
would  go  to  America  or  Australia,  and  begin  life 
afresh  in  a  country  where  they  do  not  ask  you  what 
you  have  done,  but  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
Here  at  home  the  past  was  always  round  one's 
neck.  For  him,  as  Eraser  of  Gains,  it  had  carried 
privileges :  doors  had  been  opened,  and  hands  held 
out.  For  him,  as  a  victim  of  a  temptation,  it  car- 
ried a  sentence  of  excommunication.  No ;  he  would 
not  make  Haley's  mistake. 

But  supposing  they  decided  to  prosecute.  The 
thought  stabbed  him  like  a  knife.  He  put  his  hands 

[317] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

to  his  head  and  drew  a  deep,  sobbing  breath.  It 
was  not  the  hardships  of  the  prison  that  dazed 
him,  the  loss  of  all  the  necessary  trifles  which 
made  life  civilized;  that  was  bearable,  a  penance 
which  might  even  bring  with  it  a  certain  consola- 
tion. It  was  the  public  ordeal,  the  degradation  in 
the  eyes  of  his  world,  which  drew  a  black  curtain 
over  the  future,  making  it  unrealizable. 

He  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room,  mad  with 
pain  and  with  the  terrors  which  confronted  him. 
If  only  Johns  would  come !  A  word  from  him 
would  at  least  end  the  uncertainty.  Even  the 
worst  was  preferable  to  this  awful  suspense.  It 
was  past  eleven  now;  surely  he  must  have  seen 
them  by  this  time.  Then  why  didn't  he  telephone? 
He  promised  to  telephone. 

He  took  off  the  receiver  and  called  the  exchange. 

"Is  my  line  in  order?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  Have  you  been  ringing?"  came  the 
answer. 

"No.  But  I  was  expecting  a  message  and  it 
hasn't  come  through.  You're  sure  there  hasn't 
been  a  call  for  me?" 

"They'd  have  rung  you  if  there'd  been  one." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  resumed  his  restless 
march  from  the  window  to  the  door  and  back 
again.  To  and  fro  he  went,  it  seemed  for  the 
thousandth  time,  and,  when  he  looked  at  his  watch, 
only  ten  minutes  had  gone. 

His  man  came  in  to  clear  away  the  breakfast. 

"Will  you  be  lunching  out,  sir?"  he  asked. 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"Lunching  out?  Oh,  I  suppose  so.  Leave  these 
things;  I'll  ring  when  I  want  you." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Eraser  called  him  back. 

"No  one's  been  here,  have  they?" 

"No,  sir." 

"I'm  expecting  some  one — a  short,  clean-shaved 
person.  Show  him  up  directly  he  comes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Eraser  threw  himself  into  an  armchair.  There 
was  his  mother;  he  must  write  and  tell  her  she 
would  not  have  the  money  he  had  promised.  What 
a  mess  it  was !  Whatever  induced  her  to  lose  such 
a  lot  of  money  at  cards  ?  It  was  always  that,  as  long 
as  he  could  remember  anything;  his  father  used  to 
get  so  furious  about  it,  and  then  she  would  give  up 
playing  for  a  time.  But  she  never  left  off  for  long, 
and  she  always  lost.  What  would  happen  to  her? 
Probably  not  much;  people  thought  nothing  of 
bankruptcy  nowadays.  She  had  cried  when  she 
begged  him  to  help  her,  and  had  talked  of  being 
ruined ;  but  the  ruin  was  his,  not  hers. 

"What  a  fool  I  was !"  he  cried  weakly.  "What 
a  fool  I  was!" 

As  the  minutes  went  by  he  became  more  and 
more  distracted.  What  had  happened?  Was 
Johns  playing  him  false?  He  had  promised  to 
telephone  or  come,  and  it  was  past  twelve.  Had 
he  lost  his  telephone  number?  But  he  saw  him 
write  it  down,  and,  besides,  it  was  in  the  book. 
What  could  be  happening?  Three  or  four  times 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

he  rang  up  the  exchange,  always  to  get  the  same 
answer — no  one  had  called  him.  At  the  last  at- 
tempt the  girl  had  kept  him  waiting  and  he  had 
sworn  at  her.  Then,  dreading  lest  she  would  not 
connect  him  when  Johns  called,  he  rang  up  again 
and  apologized. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said.  "I've  got  such  a 
headache  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing." 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  the  bell  rang.  He 
snatched  at  the  receiver  and  heard  the  girl  say  not 
unkindly : 

"Double  three  one,  here  you  are." 

"Hullo!" 

"Is  that  Mr.  Fraser?"  Johns'  voice  came  over 
the  wire. 

"Yes.    Is  that  Johns  ?    I've  been  waiting  hours." 

"Sorry.     I'm  only  just  through." 

"Tell  me  what's  happened.  Are  they  going 
to " 

"Mind  what  you  say  over  the  'phone,"  Johns 
interrupted  sharply.  "Some  one  may  be  listening." 

"But  I  can't  wait.     Tell  me  what  they  said." 

"I  want  to  see  you.     I  can't  talk  now." 

"Well,  come  along,  then.    Where  are  you?" 

"Callbox  in  Oxford  Street." 

"Then  jump  into  a  taxi.  You'll  be  here  in  five 
minutes." 

"Can't  manage  that.  I've  got  an  appointment. 
You'd  best  meet  me." 

"Where?" 

[320] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"Say  Marble  Arch.  I'll  be  inside  the  railings  at 
three  o'clock." 

"But  it's  only  two  now.  Make  it  in  ten  minutes." 

"Can't.    Three  o'clock's  the  earliest." 

"You  must.  I  won't  wait  another  hour,"  Fraser 
shouted  desperately. 

But  Johns  had  rung  off,  and  Fraser  was  an- 
swered by  the  girl  in  the  exchange. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  three  Luke  Johns  came 
out  of  the  Tube  station  at  the  Marble  Arch  and 
entered  the  Park.  He  glanced  to  right  and  left, 
and  then  walked  slowly  along  the  path  which  fol- 
lows Park  Lane.  His  face  was  grave,  and  his 
eyes  lacked  the  alert  brightness  which  was  usually 
in  them.  He  was  depressed,  for,  as  he  told  him- 
self, the  game  was  up :  to-morrow  he  would  have 
to  surrender  the  necklace  to  Porton  and  pretend  to 
be  delighted  with  a  reward  of  three  thousand  dol- 
lars. The  appointment  with  Fraser  did  not  claim 
a  thought.  He  was  bored  with  Fraser,  and  meant 
to  get  rid  of  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  had 
fixed  Hyde  Park  as  a  meeting-place  because  he 
was  tired,  and  a  couple  of  hours  under  a  tree  might 
calm  his  mind  and  help  him  to  accept  the  inevitable. 

Presently  he  saw  Fraser  approaching;  but  at  first 
he  scarcely  recognized  him,  so  greatly  had  he 
changed  from  the  neat,  well-groomed  young  man 
who  had  made  sarcastic  remarks  to  him  at  Gains 
about  his  Scotch  ancestry.  He  was  wearing  an 
old  flannel  suit  and  a  Panama  hat.  His  tie  was 
disordered,  and  he  was  trailing  his  stick  on  the 

[321  ] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

ground  as  he  slouched  along.  His  shoulders  were 
bent,  his  chest  seemed  to  have  fallen  in,  and  he 
walked  with  the  loose,  stumbling  movements  of  a 
man  who  has  lost  his  hold  on  life. 

Luke  Johns  looked  at  him  attentively.  He  had 
seen  many  a  trapped  criminal,  he  had  seen  a  man 
collapse  on  hearing  his  sentence,  he  had  seen  fear 
and  hatred  twist  a  man's  face  into  the  likeness  of  a 
fiend;  but  he  could  not  recall  so  rapid  and  com- 
plete a  transformation  as  Fraser  had  undergone. 

"My  God!"  he  said  below  his  breath. 

When  Fraser  came  up  Johns  looked  into  his 
eyes.  They  were  blurred  and  dim,  like  the  eyes  of 
an  old  man.  His  hand  trembled  upon  his  stick, 
and  a  convulsive  working  of  the  lips  showed  the 
effort  he  was  making  to  control  himself. 

Luke  Johns  could  be  tender-hearted  when  he 
was  in  a  good  humor — in  the  attic  at  Gains,  with 
a  big  fee  just  earned.  Now,  disappointed  of 
something  larger,  he  was  as  hard  as  stone.  He 
looked  at  Fraser,  coldly,  dispassionately,  without 
pity — as  a  doctor  may  look  at  an  interesting,  if 
slightly  disgusting,  specimen  in  a  laboratory  jar. 
As  he  looked  the  expression  of  his  face  changed. 
His  eyes  narrowed  and  the  iron  glint  flashed  into 
them;  the  line  of  his  mouth  straightened,  and  his 
chin  took  a  more  resolute  curve.  He  had  found 
the  idea  for  which  he  and  his  wife  had  been 
searching. 

He  saw  that  Fraser  was  paralyzed  with  abject 
fear — the  fear  of  disgrace,  of  trial  and  sentence, 
[322] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

of  being  "found  out."  Only  once  had  he  seen 
such  an  intense  agony  of  fear  in  a  man's  face — in 
the  Toulon  scandal,  when  he  told  Graham  Toulon 
that  his  secret  was  known  and  the  proofs  against 
him  were  complete. 

And  an  hour  later  Graham  Toulon  had  been 
found  with  his  throat  cut. 

He  knew  it.  He  had  only  to  tell  Eraser  that 
they  were  going  to  prosecute  him.  And  then? 
Then  there  would  be  no  evidence.  No  one  except 
Eraser  knew  who  had  the  necklace,  and  Porton 
would  draw  the  natural  inference — that  he  had 
passed  it  to  an  accomplice,  and  could  not  get  it 
back  when  he  asked  for  it.  There  would  be  no 
evidence — unless  he  left  a  letter.  That  was  a 
chance  against  them;  that  was  the  one  risk  which 
they  must  run  in  a  game  for  the  biggest  stake  they 
had  ever  had  on  the  table. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  Eraser  cried  hoarsely, 
breaking  in  upon  Johns'  reflections.  "What  have 
you  got  to  tell  me?" 

Johns  recalled  himself. 

"Oh,  how  are  you?"  he  said. 

"What  have  you  got  to  tell  me  ?  Are  they  going 
to  prosecute?" 

Johns  turned  a  flinty  eye  upon  him. 

"That's  so,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  Frazer  reeled.  His  knees  shook 
under  him  and  he  leant  heavily  upon  his  stick,  put- 
ting his  other  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a  gesture 

[323] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

of  utter  weariness.  Then  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, and  said  in  a  quiet,  restrained  voice: 

'.'Thanks.  I  don't  think  I  need  ask  you  any- 
thing further.  I  shall  be  at  my  rooms  when  I'm 
wanted." 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  away.  Johns 
watched  him  go.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved, 
not  a  shadow  of  hesitation  or  regret  crossed  his 
eyes.  For  a  full  minute  he  stood  still,  thinking. 
Then  he  spat  noisily,  as  if  some  flavor  had  dis- 
pleased him,  and  blew  his  nose.  Then,  striking  off 
across  the  grass,  he  looked  about  him  for  a  shady 
seat. 


[  324 1 


CHAPTER  V 

T  UKE  JOHNS  stayed  in  the  Park  till  after 
•*-'  five  o'clock.  He  did  not  hurry  his  return 
to  Gower  Street,  though  he  knew  that  his  wife 
was  expecting  him,  and  something  had  been  said 
about  a  visit  to  Madame  Tussaud's.  For  the 
present  he  preferred  to  be  alone ;  and  he  sauntered 
along  Oxford  Street,  looking  idly  in  the  shop- 
windows,  and  enjoying  the  hot  afternoon  sunshine 
which  beat  upon  his  back.  He  found  it  exceed- 
ingly grateful,  and  the  sight  of  the  shadier  by- 
streets made  him  feel  chilly  as  he  passed  them. 

He  stopped  at  a  shop  where  views  of  London 
and  reproductions  of  pictures  in  the  national  col- 
lections were  displayed.  A  photograph  of  West- 
minster Abbey  caught  his  fancy  and  he  went  in 
and  bought  it.  He  and  his  wife  had  been  there 
soon  after  they  arrived  in  London,  and  it  would  be 
a  pleasant  memento  of  their  trip. 

He  strolled  as  far  as  the  Frascati  Restaurant, 
where  he  ordered  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  cigar.  He 
sat  watching  the  people  round  him,  in  particular  a 
girl  in  a  monstrous  hat,  whose  appetite  for  French 
pastry  seemed  unlimited. 

"That's  her  fourth,  bless  her,"  he  murmured, 

as  she  took  the  last  piece  on  the  dish.    "What  time 

do  you  get  dinner,  my  dear?" 

*  He  was  about  to  go  when  two  men  came  in. 

One  of  them  was  an  American,  and  Johns  recog- 

[325] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

nized  him  as  a  member  of  the  New  York  police 
service  whom  he  knew.  He  signalled  to  him,  and 
they  made  their  way  to  his  table  and  sat  down. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  the  man  asked. 

"Brought  the  missis  over  for  a  holiday,"  Johns 
answered.  "We're  about  half  through.  And 
you?" 

"Oh,   business.     We  don't  get  enough  dollars 
Jor  holidays  in  Europe." 

"That  so?  Then  I  guess  you'll  be  taking  a 
passenger  back  with  you — eh?" 

"Dessay." 

"What's  new  the  other  side?  If  you  read  the 
papers  here  you'd  think  America  didn't  exist  'cept 
Roosevelt  and  Taft." 

"Nothing  fresh  when  I  left." 

"Are  you  seeing  the  town?  There's  a  healthy 
lot  of  monuments." 

"No  time.  It's  there  and  back  with  me,  and 
the  sooner  I'm  back  the  better  it  suits  me  this  trip." 

"That's  a  pity.  There's  Westminster  Abbey 
now.  It's  impressive." 

"Ah!" 

"I've  bought  a  photograph  of  it,"  Johns  said, 
producing  his  purchase. 

The  detective  and  his  friend  looked  at  it  with 
no  more  than  a  faint  interest;  and,  as  the  conversa- 
tion seemed  to  be  languishing,  Johns  got  up, 
saying: 

"Well,  I'll  be  moving.  Pleased  to  meet  you. 
So  long." 

[326] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

uSo  long." 

Johns  turned  away,  and  the  detective,  leaning 
toward  his  friend,  said: 

"That's  Luke  Johns,  unofficial  agent  in  New 
York.  He  and  his  wife  work  together  doing  so- 
ciety jobs.  He's  smart,  but  he's  hell-fire  hot.  He's 
been  over  the  edge  more  than  once,  /  know;  one 
of  these  times  he'll  get  bagged." 

Luke  Johns  reached  the  boarding-house  as  the 
bell  was  ringing  for  dinner.  He  said  nothing  to 
his  wife  about  his  interview  with  Fraser,  and 
during  the  meal  he  talked  mainly  of  their  plans  for 
Paris.  When  they  had  finished  she  suggested 
that  he  should  take  her  to  a  music-hall,  and  they 
set  off  on  foot  down  Gower  Street  to  go  to  the 
Palace. 

At  a  corner  a  man  was  selling  newspapers.  He 
was  calling  out  "Society  Suicide."  Johns'  face  be- 
trayed no  sign  of  interest,  but  he  bought  a  paper 
and  read  it  as  he  walked  along. 

It  was  a  paragraph  on  the  front  page  which 
held  his  attention.  He  read  it  through,  and  then 
handed  the  paper  to  his  wife.  When  she  saw 
Eraser's  name  she  started  and  looked  at  her  hus- 
band with  a  keen,  searching  glance.  He  was  busy 
lighting  a  cigar,  and  she  read  on  to  the  end  of  the 
column  without  speaking.  Then  she  folded  up  the 
newspaper  and  gave  it  back  to  him. 

After  a  silence  which  lasted  almost  to  the  door 
of  the  music-hall  she  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

[327] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"I  told  him  they  would  prosecute,"  he  answered. 

She  understood.  The  case  of  Graham  Toulon 
had  been  already  in  her  mind. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they  returned  to 
the  boarding-house.  On  the  hall  table  there  was 
an  envelope  addressed  to  Luke  Johns.  It  contained 
Porton's  card,  on  which  he  had  written:  "I  have 
called  twice,  trying  to  find  you.  Come  to  my  office 
at  ten  to-morrow  without  fail." 

Upstairs  Mrs.  Johns  signed  to  her  husband  to 
bring  the  slate. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  wrote. 

"See  Porton  in  the  morning,"  he  answered. 

"And  tell  him— what?" 

"It's  up  to  him  to  do  the  telling.  He  thinks  I 
didn't  see  Eraser." 

"And  then ?" 

"If  he  left  a  letter  giving  the  show  away  I  cut 
my  loss  and  get  out.  I  put  the  necklace  on  the 
table  and  dodge  the  questions.  Suppose  he  does 
say  he  gave  it  me  on  Sunday.  I  say  he  didn't,  and 
he's  not  there  to  answer  back." 

"And  if  there's  no  letter,  there's  no  evidence. 
Fraser  took  it  and  passed  it  on — and  Lord  knows 
who's  got  it  now." 

Mrs.  Johns  looked  steadily  at  her  husband. 
She  was  not  worrying  about  morals;  she  was  try- 
ing to  find  a  loophole  in  his  argument.  Ap- 
parently she  was  satisfied;  for  after  a  minute  she 
laid  aside  the  slate  and  got  up. 

"We'd  best  turn  in,  Luke,"  she  said.  "It's 
late." 

[328] 


CHAPTER  VI 

~^HE  next  morning  Luke  Johns  was  in  Lincoln's 
•*•  Inn  Fields  by  ten  o'clock,  and  was  promptly 
shown  into  Mr.  Porton's  room. 

"You've  heard  what's  happened,  I  suppose," 
Porton  said,  without  any  preliminary  greeting. 
"Did  you  get  the  necklace  out  of  him  in  time?" 

Johns  sat  down,  assuming  the  air  of  an  elderly 
person  who  thinks  it  necessary  to  give  an  undivided 
attention  to  the  process.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to 
reply,  but  when  he  was  comfortably  settled  he  said : 

"I've  heard  about  Fraser." 

It  was  not  his  policy  to  afford  Porton  an  oppor- 
tunity to  ask  questions  which  might  be  difficult  to 
meet  until  he  knew  more;  and  he  followed  on 
quickly: 

"What's  been  done?" 

"Everything  possible.  But  did  you  get  the 
necklace?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Porton's  insistence  did  not  suit  Johns  at  all. 
He  saw  that  he  was  in  the  greatest  danger,  and 
his  heart  beat  furiously  as  the  possibilities  rose  be- 
fore him.  If  he  said  "yes,"  the  game  was  up,  and 
the  necklace  must  be  handed  over.  But  if  he  said 
"no"  he  was  committing  himsel-f  irretrievably.  If 
Fraser  had  left  a  letter,  the  "no"  could  never  be 
explained  away;  he  could  not  plead  now  that  he 
was  doing  the  best  for  Fraser,  or  that  he  was  play- 
[329] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

ing  a  hoax  on  Porton.  No  one  would  swallow 
that  story,  and  he  would  stand  to  lose  not  only  his 
fee  but  his  reputation.  They  might  even  go  to  the 
length  of  arresting  him  on  a  charge  of  attempted 
theft.  He  would  have  given  a  thousand  dollars  to 
know  whether  Fraser  had  left  a  letter.  His  lead- 
ing question,  "What's  been  done?"  upon  which 
he  had  counted  for  an  answer  to  guide  him,  had 
been  turned  aside,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  repeat 
it.  "Everything  possible"  might  mean  very  little; 
it  did  not  necessarily  mean  that  Porton  had 
searched  Eraser's  rooms. 

What  did  seem  clear  was  that  Porton  had  not 
yet  received  a  letter.  Otherwise,  he  would  scarcely 
have  asked,  "Did  you  get  the  necklace  out  of  him 
in  time?"  He  would  know  that  he  had  got  it — 
unless  he  was  laying  a  trap  for  him. 

All  this  passed  through  his  mind  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second.  He  knew  that  he  must  decide  in- 
stantly on  the  course  he  meant  to  follow,  for  the 
slightest  hesitation  would  make  Porton  suspicious. 
He  slid  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  fingered  the 
necklace.  The  feel  of  it  stiffened  his  courage,  and 
moistening  his  lips  he  said:  "No;  I  didn't." 

Porton  flung  his  pencil  on  the  table,  crying 
furiously:  "Then  we've  lost  it.  Didn't  you  see 
him  yesterday?  You  left  here  to  go  and  see  him." 

"No;  I  told  you  I  was  to  see  him  in  the  after- 
noon. I  'phoned  him  up  and  he  put  me  off.  Said 
he  wasn't  ready  to  talk,  and  he'd  ring  me  last 
night  or  this  morning  first  thing.  I  told  him  I  was 

[330] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

to  meet  you  at  twelve  o'clock  to-day,  and  he  said 
that  would  be  all  right." 

"Go  on." 

"Well,  he  didn't  ring  up  last  night,  but  I  didn't 
fret,  'cause  I  thought  it  was  sure.  Then  I  got 
your  telegram,  and  I  thought  p'r'aps  he'd  gone 
through  to  you ;  and  this  morning  I  read  about  it 
in  the  newspaper.  I'm  real  upset  about  it,  I 
am  so." 

"Confound  it!  Just  when  we  were  within  an 
ace  of  getting  it !  I  told  my  clients  yesterday  the 
thing  was  as  good  as  settled." 

Johns  slipped  in  the  question  he  was  waiting 
to  ask : 

"Have  his  rooms  been  searched?" 

"Rather.  I  read  about  it  in  the  train,  going 
home,  and  came  straight  back  to  town  and  went  to 
Scotland  Yard.  Of  course,  they  knew  about  the 
robbery,  and  when  I  told  them  Fraser  was  the 
man  they  took  me  along  to  Jermyn  Street  at  once. 
I  was  there  three  hours,  and  we  turned  the  place 
inside  out." 

"Find  anything?" 

"Nothing.    Not  a  clue  of  any  sort." 

"No  letters?" 

"One." 

Johns'  heart  bounded.  Hardened  as  he  was  he 
could  not  control  himself  and  his  lips  twitched  with 
fear. 

Had  Porton  been  leading  him  on  all  the  time? 

"One?"  he  cried  sharply. 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"To  his  mother,"  Porton  answered  listlessly. 
"In  the  circumstances,  I  took  the  liberty  of  open- 
ing it  and  made  a  copy." 

Johns  breathed  freely  again.  The  danger  was 
passing. 

"What  did  he  say?"  he  asked. 

Porton  threw  a  folded  sheet  of  paper  across  the 
table,  saying:  "It's  a  confession,  but  that's  all." 

Johns  took  it  up  and  read  it. 

"Mv  DARLING  MOTHER  : 

"I  have  tried  to  keep  my  promise  and 
let  you  have  the  money  you  want;  but  I 
have  failed. 

"I  am  not  going  to  excuse  myself  for 
what  I  have  done.  I  was  tempted  and  I 
yielded;  and  you  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach yourself  with,  for  you  would  have 
been  the  last  to  approve. 

"I  cannot  bear  the  disgrace  and  the 
knowledge  that  I  have  forever  ruined  the 
family  name,  and  I  am  taking  what  seems 
to  me  the  only  possible  course. 

"Forgive  me,  darling  mother,  for  bring- 
ing this  upon  you.    The  fault  is  mine  alone, 
and  I  am  paying  for  it  willingly. 
"Your  loving  son, 

"LESLIE." 

Luke  Johns'  spirits  rose  as  he  read  it.  It  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  to  his  purpose  if  he  had 
written  it  himself. 

[332] 


WHAT  NO  ONE  DISCOVERED 

"That's  plain,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  plain  enough,"  Porton  growled.  "But 
who's  got  the  necklace?" 

"Guess  that's  what  you  want  to  know,"  Johns 
could  not  resist  saying. 

"There's  five  hundred  pounds  for  you  if  you 
can  put  your  finger  on  him." 

"Dessay.  But  I'm  about  used  up.  I  don't  know 
the  crooks  on  this  side." 

"No.  The  police  here  will  have  to  take  it  over, 
but  it's  a  poor  chance.  He  gave  you  no  hint  where 
it  was?" 

"He  said  a  safe  place.  Seems  to  me,  it  was  so 
safe  he  couldn't  find  it  again." 

"Yes,  that's  my  idea.  I  was  afraid  from  the 
moment  you  told  me  he'd  parted  with  it.  If  we'd 
shadowed  him  we  might  have  learnt  something. 
There's  no  doubt  he  was  in  with  a  gang;  and  either 
it  had  been  got  rid  of  before  you  caught  him,  or 
they  rounded  on  him,  and  refused  to  hand  it  over. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

"It's  likely." 

"They  used  him  and  threw  him  over,  I  expect. 
They  would,  of  course.  And  when  he  found  he 
couldn't  get  the  wherewithal  to  settle  with  us  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  end  it.  Not  a  bad  judge, 
either,  but  he  might  have  eased  his  conscience  by 
giving  us  a  hint  where  to  look." 

Johns  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  say,  and 
after  a  moment  Porton  put  his  hand  on  the  bell, 
adding: 

[333] 


THE  WIDOW'S  NECKLACE 

"I  must  give  you  a  check,  Mr.  Johns.  Sorry  it 
won't  be  for  the  amount  I  thought  of  yesterday." 

Johns  smiled.  He  had  a  very  pleasant  smile 
when  he  was  in  a  good  humor. 

A  clerk  came  in  and  Porton  said  to  him : 

"Draw  a  check  for  twenty  pounds  to  the  order 
of  Mr.  Luke  Johns  and  bring  it  in,  please." 

"When  are  you  sailing?"  he  asked,  turning  to 
Johns. 

"To-morrow,"  Johns  answered.  "We're  going 
to  Paris  for  a  while,  and  then  we'll  catch  a  boat  at 
Havre." 

"O  !  You're  returning  by  a  French  boat  ?  I've 
never  tried  them." 

"We  came  across  in  a  White  Star.  Reckon 
one's  as  good  as  another." 

"Yes;  I've  heard  they  do  you  very  well  on  the 
Transatlantique  boats." 

There  was  a  pause  while  Porton  signed  the 
check.  Then  he  passed  it  across  to  Johns  and  got 
up,  saying: 

"There  you  are,  Mr.  Johns.  I'm  as  sorry  as 
you  are  that  it  isn't  for  five  hundred,  and  I  believe 
it  might  have  been  if  we'd  had  Fraser  shadowed. 
Still,  there  it  is,  and  it  can't  be  helped.  But  I'm 
afraid — I'm  very  much  afraid — that  we  shall  never 
see  that  necklace  again." 

Johns  withdrew  his  hand  from  his  pocket  and 
took  the  check,  saying  in  his  most  strident  American 
tone:  "W-e-11,  no.  I  guess  you  never  will." 

THE   END 
[334] 


A     000126451     4 


